I Need Some Fresh Eyre

In which Ms. Blue Jeans balances bohemian with bourgeois and tries to live the Snoopy dance.

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Location: Charlottesville, VA, United States

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

How You Could Ever Be Anything But Mine

There are seemingly endless permutations of choice, too complex to discretely handle, and my mind swims with rabbis, a white dog, Caren Irr, white-flight academies, the charm of voicemail, the rights of woman, Maine, clogs, cell phones, an MA, bad-assery, Harvard, taxis, Kenny Chesney, and the Oxford English Dictionary.
You see, I think my professor doesn't like me, and I suspect my writing is only persuasive when it's familiar. You see, oh but there's no way to make you see.
In Mexico, I used to walk the streets of the colonia, slowing down past windows and doors, looking, I think, for someone who looked like they spoke my first language. The feeling chilled only in a pleasant, experimental way; I was five minutes from a familiar tongue and five hours from five million. Now it feels a little sinister. I don't know if I'm the walker now, or if I'm closed up in the house, alone with my language and the tangled eddies of my idiolect, choices and significant objects washing around and binding one another, dammed up by my clumsy lonesome lips.

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