Eat only from the bowl

Well I made it until 2. And now Tula and I are sharing a bowl of popcorn in bed except she keeps licking the kernels and leaving them, so I gave her a pile which she’ll leave anyway, which I’ll have to clean up. It’s raining. It’s been raining.

I don’t know if popcorn and orange juice is a remedy for anything, but it sounded good and it tastes good. I’m glad to be warm in bed away from the world. The green bedside lamp is on for warm sea company, the cars are wooshing outside almost like water rushing to meet sand, except I know it’s dirt and tires.

Last night Pat said I did a reading in college that I don’t even remember. I read some poem about condoms, he said. And I think I know which one he’s talking about. It was a poem I completely made up. A poem an older classmate, who was one of my teachers at one point, said she could see it and me being somewhere someday. Whatever that means now. At the time it sounded like fame and glory. Or maybe to her it was just a dark stage and a coffee shop. I even remember her name. It was Bridgette. And her mom was someone sort of famous, at least at the school or the town. That poem seems so stupid now, but maybe I’ll read it again. To myself. See if it stirs anything.

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2 Responses to Eat only from the bowl

  1. It may surprise you, going back. Perhaps others have firm memories of works long unread. I’m not one of them. I find bits worth keeping. Will you let us know if you find in either the whole or parts a foretelling of fame, glory or growing skill? xo

    • rachvb says:

      I went back. Found a few things to hold on to, many others to toss, deep deep down in the garbage. Not sure about the fame and glory, but found an old familiar voice. Perhaps some growing skill, but I’m not sure about that either – although it has to be present if only a little.
      I’m not sure where that poem came from, but I do remember it. It was not my life or any part of my life. A place I had been a few times – Twenty-Nine Palms. Maybe it was a life I saw there, could see there of the people living there. I’m not sure.
      I think what I do see is a hope to tell more than just myself. I was a kid writing about things I’d never experienced, but somehow felt – affairs and watery vodka and hotel bibles. It’s a weakish poem of dirty images and somehow even before I knew much or anything about love, I knew sometimes love was like that.
      I’ll just keep on keeping on. And perhaps call into play some of my growing skill – I hope.

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