-hellow, blog.

-hola.

-ah, blog, entonces hablas espanol?

-si, a veces soy un espacio espanola.

-dale, hoy fue a pilsen, y camine mirando mirando. the world has been good to me lately, blog.

-por que?

here, blog, here is a good quote that i found. well, it's not so much a quote as it is a section of a Coover story i read called Briar Rose:

She dreams, as she has often dreamt, of abandonment and betrayal, of lost hope, of the self gone astray from the body, the body forsaking the unlikely self. She feels like a once-proud castle whose walls have collapsed, her halls and towers invaded, not by marauding armies, but by humbler creatures, bats, birds, cats, cattle, her departed self an unkempt army marauding elsewhere in a scatter of confused intentions. Her longing for integrity is, in her spellbound innocence, all she knows of rage and lust, but this longing is itself fragmented and wayward, felt not so much as a monstrous gnawing at the core as more like the restless scurry of vermin in the rubble of her remote defenses, long since fallen and benumbed. What, if anything, can make her whole again? And what is "whole"?

Whole, yes what a good question: what is whole, anyway?

Whole prancing, listening to the musicality of voices speaking with inclusion of this one, this one person composed of jaggeframents, of bits, and little furs that float about after the flurry.

"Tiene una tarjeta buena para llamar a alemania? porque quiero hablar con un amiga en alemania." And the boy sitting sprawled out on a chair, a chair in the middle of the tienda I stumble into, the one with the sign on the outside speaking of discounts. A man at the counter tells me of his father's friend who goes to Germany to buy cars and resell them in the Middle East. "Si, alemania tiene una industria cresendo." Is crecendo la palabra correcta? For some reason, I think not, but that's okay, because the boy sitting in the chair with his legs stretched out in front of him and his black hat pulled down low stands up and walks me over to the door, and we bend down, very close together and place our fingers on the chart that measures how much time I will have to talk to my friend. "78 minutes, no I mean 178 minutes." "That sounds good, I think." And we have a moment together, the little moments pressed up nextogether.

It snowed the other day. Snow, snow, snow, and biting cold. I brought out my silly Ecuador hat, the one with so many colors that simply looking at it makes me happy. And I wore it and went on walks with new friends, my cheeks all frozen and the snow slumping down to drift into the ventilator shafts, the sewers, the cracks in concrete, and disappear. The snow.

A wind that rubs. A wind that makes my mouth go all cold, from the inside out.

A roommate who smiles all the time. Her face a framed oval, the way her lips pout out when she is thinking about something, when she tells me about the boy she had a crush on who turned out to be a player.

Player.

Ah, well, to play is a game. And she paints, and she works long hours, and I call her up and say, "have you eaten?" and she says she was just going to get to it. How i love, how i feel good, how i want to make everyone happy and everyone good and let everyone know how their words--thrown down from the rising structions, not ob-, not de-, not -in, but "con" as in con gente yo hablo, con el mundo perfecto, con un pes en mi mano. con as in with. with as in carry, with as in notabsent--touch me.

i love listening, bathing in, floating on, speaking to, hearing, comforting, music.

So much attention lately. So much connection and awakening. The dream that has fractured, has pinned me to pieces, ruptured sinew and stretched me along the rack of you, and she, and me, and it, and wasn't it, and couldn't it, and didn't it, and how many dreams, and how many languages spoken roughly. The dream that leaves me as the earth wakens in this snowy spring of barhoppings and dancings and films and emails sent and laughed over and elevators and tears and kitties and cleanings and temples and plays and paintings and so many, so many (re)acts of creation, and i chew to the center of the word till i'm swallowing, cr-eat-ing everything into my channels and floodrivers and osmosised borders.

we, here in this place, this large canvas written and re-written and spoken for, we dream, we wake, all is in order.

i'm all out of castles, a woman in rags walking the paths trodden and untrodden and seen again. there is no rubble, i use all the crumbs to make. for this, my chest inflates, for this i turn back the clock, i sit in cafes, knowing i should be working, knowing i should be in class or on the subway. but more than that, knowing that i should be here. this very seat. with this very rootbeer. with this very story. with this very.

telling myself i'm not going to mess up, because everything is arrangement met by released energy, and that is not something the world cannot hold.

because i am in love with awake. awake has been dream, and the dream a wakening, and the snow a warmth, and whole a construction. whole is and will be nothing more than illusions woven together, knitted into the mittens i wear on my hands as the first Chicago snow disappears even as it clusters around walks and tall buildings and ornate balustrades. i know new words like biafora, triafora, dove-tailed and brick. the arcaded morning open for business.

i can't seem to construct a narrative for this anymore. story seems so illspent, it unravels as i spend it, and i will build and tear down and piece together, and we will laugh at the pretty mismatchings that occur in the interum.