on holes

We stopped in a small town in Texas for gas and chips. Everywhere Trump signs, tractors, and those camo buffs that wouldn’t ever block a sneeze. The faucet was leaking in the women’s bathroom. I tightened the levers as hard as I could, but it kept drip-dripping.

I wished it well, walked out and we kept driving east

I read Bell Hooks and she talks of loving oneself radically, underneath the burden of a patriarchal design. She writes that women are taught they are better at loving, which is dangerously untrue. What they learn is that they are better at folding the laundry and compromising the definition.

 I see it and then I don’t, like the squiggly lines behind my eyes when I look at the sun. It is unwise to ingest everything as real, even things you know to be true.

My boss tells me that psychic empaths have holes inside of them where others can leak in

This makes sense to me in a perspicuous way

A woman used to make three different kinds of tuna salad each time she prepared it. 

One child liked onion no celery. 

Another liked celery no onion. 

The third liked both, plus mustard. 

She did this every time and when asked how she liked her own tuna salad, she didn’t know

What this all means is that there is foundation in understanding oneself enough to not take the leaking faucet personally.

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