Advanced Poetry runs three days a week during the summer.
I'm certain something wild is waiting to erupt.
How do we calm it?
How do we feed it just enough?
I love this woman. Somehow I knew her blood was as mercurial as my own; even in 1991 when a girl at school handed me the cassette tape of her second album, I do not want what I haven't got, because it wasn't quite her taste. That girl did me a favor. I'll have to let her know if I see her at our 20th class reunion this summer.
Have I mentioned this year is 25 years since my diagnosis? Now I have.
I think about my hair. I think about scissors. I think about my psychiatrist in the North Country who used to tell me he could always gauge the stability of my moods by my hair color and style.
Sometimes a girl just wants to give in to the tug. Sometimes the wild doesn't want to be rooted out.
Sierra, I am listening. I know you are right about the break. But it's Advanced Poetry. And even if I'm "good" I'm not certain I'll make it through August with my long blonde locks.