Flowers

What is it like where you are, how's the weather? Is it like roses in the rain that unravel as you step? What does the season bring?

It's almost like the rainy season here. Instead of jungle though, there is only concrete and all we bury beneath it. Coffee, cigarettes from Russia pastel-configured to go with my outfits, time that passes or doesn't, things that begin or don't, end or don't. I feel free, and yet I struggle to maintain the idea that I can sustain all this. Dreams feel so close and even at night lost in sleep I am lucid and I glow like Vodka in a storm-glass. I understand how fragile life is, how quick it can all be over, and so I try to stay calm, and let it all pass over like so much water. When I was little I would emerge from the Pacific Ocean covered in seaweed and salt---I must have looked like a wet-rat---I thought I looked like a mermaid. Time was, I thought I would never be more than a passing interest to anyone. Now, having been someone's pet, someone's true love almost-soulmate, someone's near-fatal obsession, and someone's muse, I am satisfied that I am important enough. My life is still very interior, though not as much as it was when I was a child, when I was a teenager. I have an easier time bending reality to my will now. I still want cities that dashing characters inhabit, a New York feeling with West Coast weather. I have the revenge of the shy, straggly girl: I model, I write, I draw, I paint, I work, I read. Quiet tastes strange, as does feeling I have nothing to fight. I do not ask for Tigers, and I am happy just to watch them and let them come and go as they please. It's a pure time. It is like an Orchid trapped under glass. No one can trample it under foot.