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.  

All the work I've ever done

A shift of protocol is happening at work. The office grows, rather the people in the office grow. I attempt to go to my desk and it's not there. My computer is gone. All of the creative department is missing. I walk around the building looking for them, one of the designers is getting food at a food cart. She yells at me about losing her job, then blames me for it. She's someone I used to work with but no longer work with. I question my work, all the work I've ever done, ever will do.  

Florida Beaches

The woman my stepfather left my mother for is now a Brazilian woman. She's a cross between the owner of a restaurant where I used to work at and Clarice Lispector. She is in the process of moving out of my father's house. We meander down to a Floridian beach looking for a hotel room. The woman slips into a garage and nestles her head up to the janitor. He jumps on her. I watch as she is gang raped by the entire hotel staff. I can't do anything to help. She's on top of a car, drunk out of her mind. Mascara runs down her beautifully aged cheeks. I put a towel around her shoulders. 

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.