You motion for another martini and down it quickly. What number is that? Three? Five? Why hasn’t He noticed you yet? You’re drunk but not yet sloppy. You’ll leave before that happens. Catch a cab, stumble up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk up. You pick up your cell and your fingers move slowly but you put a note in your phone with the name of the bar you’re at—sober you will appreciate the breadcrumbs.
This is the work of The New Historia: to summon women deliberately left out of history and discover them and the shards of information about them that can be found. As more and more female actors are made visible, another narrative of the human experience emerges that is more inclusive, accurate, and just.
shirt button open
revealing breastless chest
breathless lungs
sternum
I want someone to see me./
I want someone to know/
it ain’t easy.
If I met America at that bar on 8th St, I wonder if he would correct me
And tell me that’s not his preferred pronoun
I came to say,
That I love you,
But instead, you gave me nothing
That I could hope for.
I daydream a lot about floating in the air. A slow, sort of dead man’s float across the sky. This doesn’t make much sense to me because I don’t like planes. Or swimming. I prefer concrete over carpet. Analysis over meditation. So, the floating in the air thing—well that is a little crazy. A contradiction to my nature that feels oddly good.
I found I was still able to evoke emotions and capture beauty. It was safe. It was comfortable, and I never had to look away. Rather than feeling lost, I felt that I wanted more and could do more. I began to see the clouds as art, as the way they might look or could look. I saw them as paintings, as layers, and eventually, some as abstracts.
“Addiction is all or nothing thinking,” my father told me, “like your battle with depression. You either pull yourself together or completely succumb to the sadness, never leaving your bed. All or nothing thinking, the hardest and most manipulating kind of reasoning.”
