For you the Him from Always

To you I wish you many gardens.
I am a writer and a reader
and I only wish good things for you
Like gardens filled with food for life.
Books with lessons.
Smiles and kisses from those who sleep
kind and simple dreams at night.
Only a writer and a reader,
are the things I have to offer.
A misguided
Underachiever

Goals

I would like to be up and fed by the time the sun is animating past Mount Diablo

There was once a time I saw the morning sun with no rays as a dark, blood red ball bulging, both dangling and floating in front of a soft lavender sky on the way to the emergency room with my drowsy, life saving mother.  I thought I might be dying. I contemplated Buddha- that he or something eone without reproductive organs or something without a face had sent me the most beautiful morning sun I had ever seen while I spit up blood from my throat into a vase filled with ice. That maybe this is what I would be gifted right before I died. A sun you could stare into without burning your eyeballs. Fifteen was such a curious age to be.

earlier in the navy blue night of morning, I woke up in my mother's bed bleeding in hot strings out of my mouth soon to find out that my wounds from surgery had opened and a main artery exposed. I began to choke on blood clots pushing out of the exposed vein in my throat where my tonsils used to be. They pushed like old chunks of turkey meat refrigerated in its own greasy goo trying to escape a skinny red coffee straw. I think I lost close to a pint and a half or so of blood that day.

The nightmares that followed were of bathroom sinks filled with red oceans that eventually turned into tidal waves. I was drowning in them. After watching six hours of footage of the tsunami in Thailand I dreamt of tsunamis until the present time. The dreams continue on in anxious episodes and creeps the feeling always so slightly that one day the ocean will eat me, unless it all ready has and I am still dreaming. 

I would like to touch my hand to ink or lead and then again to paper in this ménage a trois of instability and humor at least once a day.

That I haven't a single straight line in my career doesn't disrupt the fact that I have starved and starved again just to have time to sleep these weird figures into a childish hour and wake up with the desire to draw them for the next seven hours. I've always hated drafting. I would rather spend thirty sleepless hours hating myself for wanting to draw the messiest angel than spend the next year avoiding her wrinkled, incomplete song trapped underneath something molding in that damned hell of a closet that is the flower shop freezer pretending that one day she will be perfect. And after all this I've never blamed anyone for saying, "Bianca, you need to get a real job."

One day, I'd like to step on the balcony ledge at the Louvre again. 

The last time I did I had a crowd beneath me in the plaza pointing up, my aunt, drunk, next to me laughing wildly, and a black flowing dress on. The ushers in the museum rushed out to scold me but I wondered what was so wrong. Did they actually think I would jump? Next time I will take that picture and I still won't jump. It would be such a tacky way to go, like, "That crazy bat, did she have to do it in such a fine setting in front of such fine people in such a fine city? She hasn't even a fine art degree of any sort." 

Even still- it would look good.

"You need to relax"

"You need to stop talking"

"You need to watch the ways in which you are honest"

"You need to stop reading so much"

"You need to watch your back"

"You need sleep"

"You need to wear less black"

"You need to stop dressing like you belong on a corner"

"You need to learn how to speak to people without offending them"

"You need to be to on birth control"

"You need to stop taking any pills, ever"

"You need to get a real job"

"You need to know what you need to do and everyone else knows except for you"