Lunch break

I dart across the square like a chess piece to dark spaces, shade. Say ‘Thank you’ sharply to a man ogling me for half a block when he says he likes my hair. Jesus, Rachel, you don’t have to thank, acknowledge, sorry everything.
I went to the library again for lunch. Breaking up the day with writing seems to help. I’m sneaking sections of Sylvia’s journals – somehow knowing she and Anne are there, meat among the spines, makes me feel better. That I’m not alone is worrying about success and failure. Rejection and satisfaction. Since when did people decide it’s OK to play music and cell phones and talk and laugh and hack and hack in a reading room?! And Say fuck a lot? SHUT THE FUCK UP, THIS IS A LIBRARY! I don’t remember people DOING this. Is this an East thing or slowly becoming a people thing? It was pissing me off.
Sometimes, when I’m walking I wish I could have a direct link to the blog or my journal. Things seem to flow easier, they seem to run. Writing it all down, waiting to write it all down slows me down. And then I’m trying to remember it all. The gum’s holding strength between sewer grates. I realized my life happens so much in my head – but that’s silly of course it does – what I mean is so much goes on that I don’t verbally talk about. Which is maybe the same for other people, I wouldn’t know.
Is this progress: seeing a poem for the first time in months and cringing at how messy it was?

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