Today I feel like me.

Today I feel like me.
Me is a dancing thing. It is a thing with hands and legs and a loudness and a mudra, a way of making sense of my feelings through hand contortions. It drinks and it slides on the smooth surfaces and doesn't check in with reality -- the sleepy future or the past crystallizing impossibly like expired honey.
I bought a new dress, a black dress reminding me of those Iranian woman I saw in the newspaper protesting the election - all black and kohl and unquestionably sexy. This dress reminded me of me - the dancing and the music is loud in a way that is absolutely distrating from the unnecessary things.
Why hasn't Bollywood caught on full-fire yet in the United States? Why aren't we in the streets yet with our rainbow saris in some magic sychronized bitty?
But today I feel like me and don't want to share the world myself - don't feel like teaching the world how to live succulently, I will live succulently myself and keep it all in this big house with Sushi the cat and my mug of orange juice tequilla and keep it all to myself tonight.
We can't all be a Devendra Banhart - there simply isn't enough money for drugs and we can't all be Thoreau (my English teacher Mr. Jones says if we were all Thoreau we would no longer have a functioning society).
And I will let you in on a secret I have kept from myself for such a long time: I want you to see me in the windows. I want you to look in and see me and how I live. How I make my tea, how I dance and how I take off all my clothes and do the dishes and draw my pictures and throw my typewriters across the room. You will see through transparent drapes dyed orange put up so I can not see you and you can watch me kiss my boyfriend and light candles and watch the way I worship the gods and build my shrines up from cardboard and paint and crayon chards and maybe you will allow me to watch you.
Maybe you will think my idea is grand and realize you have no secrets strangers cannot see and you will let me sit in the cold with my hands wrapped around my nighttime cauldron with greyblue mittens and I will see you (please?).
You will read your books and look through your LPs and not think of me once. I will watch you through your blue stained transparent curtains without embarrassment as you turn up that Liz Pappademas song swinging your arms
and we will be changed in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet and something in each of us will come alive and we realize we are one like that crazy Dr. Bonners used to say and still says on every one of his little bottles of peppermint liquid soap, lavendar liquid soap, almond liquid soap and every little bar of soap (WE'RE ALL ONE OR NONE!)
Today I feel like me though and I want to share that more than anything because I am an angry thing most of the time. The frowning face in the grocery line who doesn't want to make conversation, who thinks everyone around me is slow and dumb and forgetful and irresponsible (but this isn't true because you are so lovely dark and deep!). And I am depressed most of the time but forget that, please!
It's so hard to be a child everyday as well as an adult (J'essaie! Vraimont je fais!).