This is the story of your red right ankle
And how it came to meet your leg
And how the muscle, bone, and sinews tangled
And how the skin was softly shed

And how it whispered “Oh, adhere to me
For we are bound by symmetry
And whatever differences our lives have been
We together make a limb.”
This is the story of your red right ankle.

This is the story of your gypsy uncle
You never knew ‘cause he was dead
And how his face was carved and rift with wrinkles
In the picture in your head.

And remember how you found the key
To his hide-out in the Pyrenees
But you wanted to keep his secret safe
So you threw the key away.
This is the story of your gypsy uncle.

This is the story of the boys who loved you
Who love you now and loved you then
And some were sweet, some were cold and snuffed you
And some just laid around in bed.

Some had crumbled you straight to your knees
Did it cruel, did it tenderly
Some had crawled their way into your heart
To rend your ventricles apart
This is the story of the boys who loved you
This is the story of your red right ankle.
--Red Right Ankle -- Decemberists

Discovered this on a cd I have just now. I smiled a Seeing An Old Friend smile when it started - thinking of how long it's been since I've heard it and the feeling I got when I first heard the words and melody.
I am not an instrumental person, maybe somewhat of a musical person, either way .. I wear songs like worn in sweaters - listening with the initial sigh I let out as I let the soft fabric fall onto my back and around my hip bones. Contentment found in a flourescent lit room where I sit with a blank screen in front of me and a journal filled with theoretical jibberish next to me; not sure how one is going to transfer onto the other.

Sat in Sid's office today with Oamjie. They are on my left and right and I face the window - my skirt is tucked in the crease between my legs, I am sweating, waking up from a nap, recovering from a caffeine headache, and probably biting my lip. We are here to discuss my papers and the genius that has yet to be put on paper.
First one- good, but a little biased and obviously written by someone who had been in India for a small amount of weeks when she wrote it.
Second one- discussed two weeks ago, actually, and it needs a nudge here and there - then finito
Third one- Glorified journal paper which is very "Readable" and has a good "Style"
Fourth paper- Don't be a typical Western Feminist. Free write at first, add stuff in later. Take two showers a day and the heat won't bother you so much.

Heat. Heat that I will jump into green water tanks to get away from - brown bubbles following my kicking feet. [My bathing suit was Mom's back in the day and it has a nice Jane Fonda Does Aerobics feel to it. Bright green with thin purple lines making a diamond pattern.]
Heat that steals my appetite and gives it back in time for dinner.
Heat that taps me on the shoulder around 9 a.m. and by 1 p.m. is behind/on top/behind/beneath me.

Read this on Renee's journal tonight:
the anticipation of kate coming back and summer is killing me, i want dumpstering and piermont and the reservation

i can't help but smile and hope big hopes that she is right in her hoping, too.

The last part of my eleventh year, I was in Florida for two months. I remember me and Dad were driving down the road that led to his little condominium house with his big skinny wife inside of it. Things had been horrible there and I still feel a fisherman's knot inside my stomach when I think of it. But I was 11, didn't know how to articulate a thing and I told my Dad that I felt like screaming. He looked at me, his face illuminated by the dome light and there were black outlines of Spanish Moss against navy blue skies.. no stars. Without the inhibitions that I acquired later holding me back.. I let it out. Dad laughed because he didn't expect it and I let another one out.