---if i were a victorian lady, i would do nothing.

seems as though november squirrel brains arrived prematurely this year. i find myself procrastinating procrastinating. this usually entails doing work that’s due way later than the rest. or, doing the least painful assignment in order to avoid the most painful one. of course it’s the dread that’s the worst. and the thing about dread is it’s all in your head.

was drifting in and out of florence nightengale’s cassandra this morning/afternoon. kept considering how i really just want to do nothing. day dream. read trifles. learn snippets of a new language, as a conversation piece. zero intellectual expectations.

wait a minute. what an ungrateful wench i am. i could have been that victorian lady. caged by my dress. unable to freely entertain imagination. would have no time of my own. anyone could interrupt at any moment to call on me. the call would include a glorious 15 minute conversation about nothing. i could sew. i could embroider. read aloud sometimes. that could be my life. all this entails being of the victorian upper crust, would that be the case?

if last names mean anything...

stewart: 1. a. An official who controls the domestic affairs of a household, supervising the service of his master's table, directing the domestics, and regulating household expenditure; a major-domo. Obs. exc. Hist.

i’d be of a working class family.

which means i’d probably be spending my days cleaning out chamber pots, or trying to get industrial grit off the cobblestone driveway.

better get back to my reading.

fading in/out

little things
smell of chlorine

sad men
looking to chat

a swirl in the hot tub

strong current
pulls me
in circles

i remember from the last time

we went round together
gasping for breathe b/c of laughter
i clutch the railing

her black hair
drags in the water
mouth wide
she giggles
the way she did when we were little
blue eyes bright and blinking

now

i slip gingerly in
swirling
round/round
vortex
melting
line
dancing

he warns that i ought to hold onto something

i know damn straight

down stairs
clutch
medal

brace
so
i don’t
spin

hit him
hard

mid tub

drain

wouldn’t that teach ‘em

so quiet here, he says
yes. not at all like the aquadic centre, i say
i stare at the slide
dirty beige old garbage bags

angeling towards a jet
hand on rail
i try to soothe my lower back

legs uncurl
hold themselves
horizontal
my grip lessens
whirl
toward the stranger
(acquaintance?)
in the middle of the tank

where’s my camera

look to your left
there’s a handsome man
wrapped in your duvet
he’s reading a book
something about the big bang to black holes
whatta bore

eyes mirror
cobalt
walls
sharp contour of his side
profile his nose

silence breaks

did you know:

a piece of the sun
this big by this big,
would be two tonnes

you put down the poetry

on the left
there’s a long white leg
lying by his cheek

nails arched upwards
hidden by harry hairiness

following these contours
you see the small body
stretch out between
shared warmth

powder torso

the dictionary rests
on my belly
there’s only one way to learn
what poets
actually
mean

white whiskers
stretch out across
words
he too strives to retain
something