shelter

of sugar, spice and boiled gobindo-bhog rice.

What joy, I cried today, plumb centre of 8B crossing that is free-for-all. What joy, to have cramps strike right when every chemist and every druggist has overdosed on itself and gone, oil in nose and shutter down, post lunch. Stop wailing, A tugs, stop wailing and walk.

But it is too much. Too much to bear, it has been so long and yet. Ten years nearly, shudder to think, says A, assuming I meant that and not, this. Wow, really? Ten years into puberty, of glorious womanhood, of radiant matronly virtue. What delicious feminine thrills run up and about our collective spine to think. That glow on the cheek, of love, of babymaker in waiting, of the potential harvest waiting to be seeded. Must you be so gross, we're about to be run over. A is not quite as giddy.

Of course, must. Like being reminded every minute that you've given your love away on things that don't even comprehend - wasted weak months on memories that were not even - living and being what they must make of you who don't even see - but I agree. I'm anything you want, it's easiest that way, easier than having to explain, clarify, dissent.

You're reading too much Woolf. This is not good. Lol, I say, Lol. Yesterday, she asks me if I want a shrink - worried, they are. But nothing to worry - those who talk about it don't do it. And you can talk. True that, that too. True. Cross, now! What the - that truck - why don't you just plant yourself there? Outraged, I. Not A. A is giggling. A is not giddy but A is bad, bad at crossing - more likely to get into an - accident.

But this too, too solid - I begin again but she, Oh, groan, stop, I'm going home. I pout - usually works. There's a six inch counter open - I say, I say, I say I don't think they have anything but Cerelac. I ask, could you - But the woman with the fifty medicine list says, Make sure I get mine first. I cough and blink before repeating, uh, need painkill - Yes uncle, he says; customary this exchange of endearments, grandpa calls you grandpa and so on - and then proceeds to divide two cups of lemon tea into three equal parts. I stare fascinated, beyond groggy now to care. A quips, better equipped than I right now, couldn't you just hurry? Man clucks his tongue, no appreciation for art, the exact tip of the balance - girls these days. Cluck, cluck, cluck.

Gulp down the inch long sulphur, two to be sure. And wait, wait for a miracle.

Except it's not a miracle - it's inevitable. Like roses, like Giovanni Allevi, like the midday sun - it's inevitable. Once it subsides and you're at peace with gender and generation - asl, please? - you'll wonder aloud, who exactly are? - it's inevitable.

of familiarity that should not be

One must begin Mrs. Dalloway alone on the roof. Discovered this this afternoon in a Woolf class. This woman, this woman who wrote from age five, because she must. This woman who, preoccupied with The Mother tried, tried ever so often to end everything - or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely - overjoyed at getting the right to write anything at all, for it cohered her, healed her, made her one self. She who placed herself next to Mansfield and shrugged, meh; I ought to do better. She of the acid-tongue journalistic school; she who hated to love.

One must not proceed in this vein because of course, there will never be a Lenny, oh Lenny but also because there will never be death by water. For even though, when one first heard of how Woolf walked into Hades, at eight - when she knew all about wolves and beetles, but not in Uppercase - and one tried re-enacting it, it was all in queerious jest; it was after all, stones in fist because swimsuits don't come with pockets, because it was not a river but the ocean inlet at Corbyn's Cove. Analogies are dangerous.

One must beware of those who seem to get too much. Besides, one was born into sane family and cats and dogs, heralding the twenty-first century. It shall take forever for a room of one's own but still there's the water tank and a ladder leading up to it.
Alas, At last, At least a reason to thank one's anachronistic existence.