“A mosaic is a conversation between what is broken.”
- Terry Tempest Williams, Finding Beauty in a Broken World
“Well, get used to that feeling. That’s how your whole life will feel some day.”
- Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
True love is finding someone you can tolerate. I talk during movies. My boyfriend shouts incredulous things in his sleep. “I’m a Samurai!” Don’t argue with a sleep-talker.
My lover has the uncanny ability to leave footwear in inconvenient places: a slipper tilted against the wall, a flip-flop at the bottom of the stairs. Plus Kittyface rearranged all the throw rugs in his middle-of-the-night war against ghost mice. I hear him yowling at cat-o’clock in the morning, sliding across the tile and slamming into cupboards. I say, “What’s the score Handsome Cat?” but instead of answering he stares at the lamp where he thinks moths are born.
The world is coming to an end right on schedule. North Korea has nukes and Lindsay Lohan punched a paparazzo. Other top stories: Shoe-bomber stopper becomes U.S. citizen, Rio slum engulfed in mud, Radioactive boars rampage Germany. Car bombs, oil slicks, woman delivers her own grandchild (with video), top ten ways to look younger by summer. The world is coming to an end right on schedule. I’m not scared of the Rapture or Mayan calendars, but I’m afraid of Ann Coulter.
An inventory of things that are broken in this apartment: the privacy function of the privacy blinds, dimmer switch in kitchen, the smoke detector isn’t broken but borrowing its batteries for the Xbox controller is a poor lifestyle choice. The Stairmaster isn’t broken, I just don’t use it. Buying exercise equipment didn’t tone my thighs; unfortunately it’s a multi-step process. The bathtub doesn’t drain right. The finish on the bathroom door is stripped. Kittyface peeled off a piece and ate it like string cheese. I think the cat is broken.
God isn’t broken, I just lost him. Probably left him in my pants pocket and then he went through the wash. I’m a prosthelytizing agnostic. I’m an insomniac. A new study says inadequate sleep shortens your life span, but since you’re awake for most of it seems just as long.
Don’t get me started on the planet. Even the ozone is torn open. The sky is broken.
Romance is an old pair of sneakers. The nostalgia of all the places we’ve been and the way they form to my foot keeps me from throwing them out even though they’re probably bad for my wearing through the soles. But I hate hate hate new shoes. They don’t know where to be flexible and where to be rigid.
I just read a book that says it takes 10,000 hours to become a success. I should be good at: writing, pulling espresso shots (it’s in the wrist), crossword puzzles, chit chat, shower a cappella. But how to account for my ineptitude in: parallel parking, folding maps, untying knots, relationships.
I’ve clocked 10,000 of doing it wrong.
My yoga instructor says the body is a tensegrity system. It isn’t assembled in sections. It’s inter-connected: gestures become habits, habits become actions, actions become patterns, patterns become personality.
My boyfriend complains I leave caps unscrewed and cords unwound. He sees the microwave with two seconds left on the timer and wonders why I couldn’t wait. I say, “Don’t you see?” Those seconds add up.
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Deanna Larsen is a teacher/tutor/translator in Minneapolis, MN. She will be pursuing an MFA in poetry at Minnesota State University – Mankato in the fall of 2011. Her work has previously appeared in Xenith as well as PANK, The Ante Review, Euphony, The Dirty Napkin and elsewhere.
Photo by Delphine Devos.
