Call me Ishmael

People call me a lot of things. My poetry professor calls me "'JenniferK___', just like that, all one word, right?" Sometimes I go by JK, some people just call me K. Though nicknames don't usually stick to me, initials do pretty well.

For the purposes of this hole in the internet, however, I'll be Leigh. This isn't a random choice. When sitting in my apartment, daydreaming about a life that doesn't involve quite so much homework, dropping out of college and going by my middle name as I write for a living seems more appealing than a lot of other things. So Leigh it is.

Writing and poetry will go here from now on, as well as entries more serious in nature.

(yes, Santa, I've grown up a little. Happy now?)

Here's a reprint of the story I wrote last night:

I Cannot: An Algebra Story.

Thursday night, a little physics, a little tea. At Algebra ostensibly to study but really in hopes that Phil will be there, since I haven't seen him in a couple weeks. He is, we share significant looks over Frank the uberpretentious music guy, who in my entire Algebra experience has never once stopped talking about how his music is so fresh and new and people have never heard anything like it. He needs to trim it the fuck down, is what I think. It's too busy--all drum samples and keyboards and synthetic bass. He said it himself tonight, "I just gotta figure out how vocals are gonna get through all that." It's a mess, but he'll improve.

Phil and I catch up on our weeks. His family too has fallen prey to the string of deaths that seem to be going around this time of year, and he's still wearing his funereal blacks. We exchange small talk about our crazy exes or intriguing currents. One of the topics of discussion comes in and broods by the fire. I want to write Phil a note; "10 to 1 he comes up and is social right after I leave" but do not.

An employee leaves. Phil blesses him, Irish in accent and structure, as he walks out the door: "May the grey never find the hairs of your head, and the sun always shine on the...steps...of your...feet...or whatever."

At some point we are both silent, staring off into space. He says "You look like you've got a lot on your mind." I smile and say "no, not really." It is a lie. I have a lot of things on my mind--the phrase 'stop, you're hurting me' among others--but here at this counter, where I feel more comfortable than most places in this world, does not seem the place to share.

I have a hard time believing that people do this, that they casually drop their burdens into conversations like this. I could never spill my thoughts so freely, and if I could, I could not bear to see the look on his face, part anger, part apology, part pity, and part "god I'm so sorry I have a penis."

I want to tell him. I don't think he needs to know, however.

More than anything, I want to collapse sobbing on this counter and tell him the whole story, over which I have never cried.