On my face

I move back to New York to move in with my boyfriend, Nick Flynn, and his girlfriend who may also be my girlfriend. I'm unpacking boxes, pots and pans, things my grandmother owned long ago. I mention just leaving a year ago, now I'm back, what a waste of time. Nick Flynn and my girlfriend wander around the house with other writers. She's agitated. She shows me her books. The books Nick gave her. He's reprimanded her for something. Inside the books are his love notes to her. They look similar to his love notes to me. I become angry, but let go of the anger pretty quickly. He told me I was the only one he had written to in this way. I shut the book and tell his/my girlfriend that I'm going to have a vagina tattooed onto my face.  

Open Wide

I overhear my upstairs neighbor and his wife argue about monogamy. He wants to sleep with other people, he's turned on by other people. She agrees for him to do this. He makes his way downstairs and flirts with me and a group of women I'm with. We are younger ballerinas visiting Colorado for a stint. We gallop through my father's old pantry, next to the washing machine where my mother hangs her Bruce Springsteen poster. As he flirts, we leap away in pirouettes. Then I'm in NYC or maybe Portland, maybe Galway Ireland. There are cobblestones and stairs and stores under apartments. I take my bike from a garage. I've forgotten my bike lock so instead I use Elmer's glue. I walk my bike up the stairs to a dance studio. I lay my naked body in front of the teacher and think about telling her how it's hard for me to come most ways. Maybe dancing will open up my body more. I'm aroused by the thought of her touching me. I open my legs wide.  

Kitchen Sink

Therapy is happening with a group of artists I know. My therapist asks all of us to be honest with him, as honest as we can be. The office space feels like it's in NYC. I'm a little exhausted there, pressured by external timelines and obligations. I announce to the group of artists that I feel like my days wobble between feeling like a phony and feeling like my true self. Everyone nods. They too believe this about themselves, about their art and life practice. The room turns into an apartment that belongs to a married couple I know. They are both visibly blue, literally blue in the face, with sadness. The wife is in the kitchen sink, her head is submerged in dishwater. Her face is drawn and morose. The husband wears his coat and it seems like he's going somewhere. I offer to take their daughter for a few days. They say I can try but she may not like the idea of leaving. I walk upstairs to their daughter's bedroom and on the way pass a guru from Australia. She asks me what's on my mind. I tell her secrecy is on my mind. If I could speak freely about things, act freely about things, I'd feel like a better human being. She wants money from me, this is her secret. I can feel it and immediately lose my trust in her. I walk up the stairs to my friend's daughter's room. She plays with toys. I stand and watch her from the doorway.

Piss in my seat

I'm on a work trip in NYC, and I'm staying in Williamsburg on Metropolitan avenue just passed the BQE in a Cuban guest house and restaurant. It's seedy, but meals are included. When dinner comes they tell me I can piss in my seat. I do this while watching customers come in and out. Piss hits the floor. My food is served.