“I got an A on the third quiz in American history,
an A,
dammit.
Last time I got a B
up from a C
and my father said,
"if you can get a C
you can get a B,
if you can get a B
you can get an A."-
I got an A
and my father said,
"grades don't mean anything.”
“I never realized
till now
how hard the brain has to work
to make the body do what it asks.
Or maybe how hard the body has to work
to ignore
the brain.”
“People are most honest
when they don't know you are listening.”
“I am always there.
But they don't care if I am
because I am furniture.
I don't get hit
I don't get fondled
I don't get love
because I am furniture
Suits me fine.”
“Then
why don't I tell on him?
If they don't,
why don't I?
Because.
Because I am safe this way,
silent
unnoticed.”
“I'm sure you were mistaken," Yaicha says to her brush.
My ears pin back -
"MISTAKEN?
I know who Angie is, Yaicha.
I know who our father is, Yaicha.
He hurts people, he hurts you, you never do anything!" My claws scrape the wall paint.
She turns with soft rabbit eyes. "He'll kill me."
"He's already doing that!"
I am growling, grabbing her sleeve, "Every day, every day he rips you open,
chips off pieces week by week, till a few years from now you are not even a mouthful of sawdust.
A drawn-out killing.
Well, I'm tired of all of us doing nothing. He has to be stopped."
Yaicha's eyes have flinched a few times but soften again. "Nobody can stop him."
My teeth show.
"Nobody can stop him? Good.
To him I have always been
Nobody.”
“With all the
dizzy galaxies
hot gases
dust at the speed of light
neutrinos running through
everything,
no matter how powerful someone is
here on Earth
they are just as small as me
to the vast greatness of
outer
space.”
“I'm sorry, I had a meeting"
I stand behind his chair. "Liar," under my breath.
"You weren't at a meeting," take a breath, gain speed, bursting,
"You were with Angie in the office.
I saw you. I saw you. You clamp us down, you think no one knows.
You hurt my brother! My sister!
You hurt my friend! Small trusting prey, huh?
You had to squash some weak person already in pain, thinking she loved you.
You could have chosen to hurt me!
But I'm not worth enough, I never am and you picked poor Angie, you were going to RAPE her, I SAW YOU TRY TO RAPE ANGIE, you fucking MONSTER!”
“Why am I not good enough?
At least he loves
Darren and Yaicha
in some way
even if it's horrible,
he shows them attention
and I am furniture
I get nothing
nothing
nothing
no thing”
“If all this tree is from mom and all this tree is from him
where do I grow my own branches?”
“You've always
been skinny,
always will."
I can feel
each
reclusive
bone
poke through,
the bones of
Embarrassment,
Anger,
Relief.
I push some back in,
but leave
Anger
sticking out.”
“I think that is supposed to be good,
that I get less
from him
but I feel
worth
less.”
“Yaicha and Darren
told me that I was
the mailman's child,
and I got so angry,
stalking away,
hot steam in my ribs.
Yaicha and Darren
told me that I was
the mailman's child
and now I am thinking
how wonderful it would be
to have
the mailman as
my father.”
“Yaicha runs.
He sits down, tired,
and says to mom,
"I'm sorry you had to see that."
Inevitable that he does it.
But he doesn't really want
a witness.”
“Or maybe I am just
outside enough,
being the footstool observing from the corner,
that I have a view of reality.”
“The foam cushions
on the old couch downstairs
disintegrate
daily
in a hush,
like each of us,
small flecks of
hardening puffs
raining mute to the floor
when I flop down to study.
And the more the couch gets used,
the less foam it keeps--
someday
just an uncomfortable frame,
springs and other inner workings
exposed.
Silent.”
“Yaicha is named after a song
by some group from the last century called the
Pousette-Dart Band.
Something about a girl,
a candle in the falling rain
shining amidst the pain.
I kind of surprise myself
when I can picture Yaicha as that candle.
My father named Yaicha after the "haunting melody."
I wonder if he ever listened
to the lyrics.”
“I like her explanation better than just being a diminutive
of someone else.”
“Not scared.
But excited in that
jiggering-on-too-much-hot-sauce
kind of way
that it's time to
step out
of my old framework,
raw and amorphous,
to become something I've never thought of before.”
“If I could just open my mouth wide enough
to allow those gagging blobs of truth
their slow, tar-seep passage
up through my gullet,
with barely enough oxygen to keep from
passing out
while they glorp over my tongue,
those truths would reach my teeth,
where if my jaw weren't unhinged,
I might bite them off
so I could
breathe again.”
“and echoes to my singing. More sounds went on—an arc-like melody created using an echo machine, and then a guitar solo at the end that was made by selecting fragments from a number of improvised solos. Finally, I sang the song after jogging in the studio, because for some reason I wanted to sound out of breath. Of course, I was singing the same words and melody as I had been on the earlier, straighter, version of the song, but now to a vastly altered musical track—a fact that also affected how I sang. The song, as it was released,”
“billions of women must be out there on this seven-billion-person planet being told that they are not reliable witnesses to their own lives, that the truth is not their property, now or ever.”
“You are all Sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.”
“But Fazire didn’t do exactly what she said.
He did make her perfect.
He made her bright and funny and very, very
talented.
He made her sweet and thoughtful and very,
very caring.
He made her generous and kind and very, very
loving
He decided not to make her beautiful, at least
not at first, because she should know humility
and not grow up with conceit.
Though, she would become a beauty, a splendid
beauty beyond compare.
Just… later.”
“On and on the Great River rolls, racing east.
Of proud and gallant heros its white-tops leave no trace,
As right and wrong, pride and fall at once unreal
Yet ever the green hill stay
To blaze in the west-waning day...”
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