Discernment is the word I was looking for.

Your cousin has hazel eyes, almost green. This is rare enough among people of color, but not enough to make one gawk as he has when seeing my own eyes. My eyes are blue or gray, green if I’m wearing the color. Jagged lines of orange circle my pupils. Still, I was surprised how infatuated he seemed with my orbs, for his were not unattractive. Surrounded by dark long lashes, his eyes are much more than the dull brown seen on most faces.

But I have come across more than a few people who enjoyed looking into my eyes. For a long time I thought the color of my eyes was my only attractive feature. Now I look into the mirror and see that my face has slimmed, giving me the angular cheekbones I had yearned for, my hair is twisted into locks that hang naturally about my face and I see that I am beautiful. So I pucker my full set of lips ad blow myself a kiss as I admire the light glisten on my skin. It is summer and I am a woman, thus I am lovely. 

Dream Journal- To Anthony

Last night I dreamt of giving advice.

I had told your cousin to do a rain dance. I warned that he must take the dance seriously, else the gods will turn deaf to his prayers and rain it shall. Awake, I realize that rain dances only encourages the rain, however in dreams the world can sometimes be in reverse.

We live far apart, your cousin and I. Him in Peru and I here, yet it was to rain over both of our homes. A rain we thought would never end despite had not yet begun. But we both agreed that dancing the rain away would be our only solution.

In my dream, my sister did not understand the importance of our conversation. I sat on a bed with her, in our old room from a time when we were much younger. She began to jostle herself against me, wanting my attention. Thus I locked myself in the bathroom, screaming keep away obscenities towards her face.

As water boiled on the sink, I planted my feet against the base of the toilet with my back against the door, as I’ve done too many times in my youth. She kicked at the door as I warned your cousin, “God and the rest, they are watching. But they will not listen if we do not believe.” I hung up the phone and allowed my sister to open the door and ridicule me as she carried kettles of boiling water away from the sink. 

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I had always thought that I’d end up in a loony bin. As if being crazy were a destiny worth having and I simply embraced it. It’s probably the only reason I had found myself in such a place as David E. Butler Hospital back when I was freshly seventeen. I am crazy simply because somehow I got it in my head that this is the ways things should be. Sometimes, I think the reason is the world just put me in a weird spot. Other times it’s because I am less ignorant than is expected. Just last Tuesday I decided that I must be crazy because I am left handed.

The day it happened I was sitting in my principal, Janet’s office. I had been sitting in her office far too often back then but sometimes it just seemed as if there was nowhere else to go. In the past I have always blamed the events leading up to the moment were the reason why. But it was not until this very point that I had decided that I was crazy. It was in this office that I realized that I couldn’t end things myself. I could only hope to give a push in the right directions. Sitting at a table that took up much of the space in the room, I had glared at all of those in front of me. This time there were more people than usual, as I had really fucked up. 

At the Shell gas station

I am sitting in the front seat, leaning forward as my skin soaks in the sunlight bouncing off the windshield. I am experiencing feelings of nostalgia. I have always enjoyed being a passenger. Driving about, Jake and I are running errands, our final goal being a carwash. I am presently quivering with anticipation, for it has been a long time since I had rode through one of those automatic, coin-operated, conveyor belt washes. I can only remember the experience was like being trapped in an aquarium, except all the water was on the outside. I am determined not to forget a second time what it means to be in a carwash.

I am sitting quite impatiently, with my hands tucked under my thighs. All I want is see the inside of the car wash. Jake is pulling up to the pay-machine and he slips in seven single dollar bills. He is wanting to get quarters and so he slips in the extra dollar bill. The carwash is only six dollars. The pay-machine is spitting out too many quarters. Jake and I are staring in shock. We are in awe. Jake pulls two handfuls of quarters out of the change tub. I am counting the change by picking the quarters up for at a time into my left hand. I count six dollars and my hands are gritty from the dirt gathered to the silver money. The car wash is only costing Jake one dollar.

            A harshly feminine computer animated voice from the pay-machine is yelling instructions at us, “Shift car into neutral! Do not steer the wheel; let the conveyor belt guide your car through the wash! Press the Start button! Roll up your window! Press the Start button!”

            Jake is yelling at the machine lady to shut up. I am resting back in my seat, waiting for the memory to come back to me through my present experience. I am allowing the machines in front of me to drown out the argument now being had with Jake and the pay-machine girl. We begin forward.

Blue soap is spitting at us. The car is floating through the carwash like a ghost. My vision is obscured by the soap. Giant buffers are rubbing against the sides and windshield of the car. I am feeling much like one who is stuck in an aquarium with the water on the outside. Large tentacles that look much like old t-shirts cut into browned strips, are swashing about the windshield in a fury. Everything is slipping smoothly over the surface of the chrome vehicle and we firmly press on.

I am wondering who it was that invented the conveyor belt car wash. It must have been simple I am not so sure I believe it is necessary. I am comparing a different memory in which I am hand washing the car with my father and the process is longer and more effective. I am swiping a soft, pillow white terry cloth in circles on the windows. I am calm because I am working diligently without thinking. My brain is shifted out of focus.

With Jake, the car now removes itself from the conveyor belt, not much cleaner than it was on entrance. I decide that I will never need to drive through a car wash again. Jake is wanting to come back, he is wishing for more change from the pay machine. I however am only glad to find peace in remembering. We are pulling down the road again and I am happy to be a passenger today.