entre los culos, no hay espacio

Meanwhile, she is thinking about cows, and is very much concerned with the one that is certainly about to step out right in front of her.  Only she isn't sure exactly where that might be, because so much of the road is uncertain.  It's that time of the year when there are cracks in the cement, and there are not enough workers coming to repair all of the things that are breaking apart.  It's not crazy, she hopes, but she is certain that she is starting to see glimpses of the dwarves who live beneath the surface of the road coming out to have a look at the world they will inherit.

That's not bad news, not for her, because those very same dwarfs who are making lines in the air with their hands when she is falling asleep are more capable of taking over all of these important operations.  It's obvious to anyone who's paying attention that this isn't working, and these are the ones who can do things right, because they are always so much closer to the sea.  The sea is where you will unlock me, she thinks, and throws the thought out of her mouth through her tongue, because she doesn't trust where it came from.  The dwarfi (the correct plural) have been running things without our knowledge for a very long time, and it's better not to say these things out loud because she starts to think about how she might be sounding like the kinds of people she wants to avoid.  But everything I try to avoid is the very thing that I always end up hitting, and I never do get to hit what I aim for, so maybe I should start playing with the scope of my own life, and learn how to hit without shooting the target. 

It would be better and so much easier if there were not crabs crawling out of the cracks in the road, far too many to avoid certain disasters and tragedies, and she really wishes she could look away from the road because she doesn't want to see what it going to happen to these crabs.

She starts to turn her attention away from the unavoidable horrors that are about to take place by thinking about her daughter, who is becoming a miniature version of her, and getting larger all the time.  Eventually, with the right amount of food and water and sunlight, the daughter will get larger than the mother and if she has the right escape plan, she will have slipped out entirely before she is eaten.  Except for now everything is very much okay, and her life is complete, in its way, in its way.  There are threats of being eaten that also come along with the threat that she will be engulfed, and if she is smaller than the daughter then she might be more aligned with the realm of the dwarfen people, and that's not as unsafe as the rest of this is turning out to be.  There are also three wonderful things to think about that will make this holiday complete, and they all have to do with bachata.  She is bachata, after all, and even though she has never been to the soil, the rhythm is in her bones.  Suddenly, she is becoming aware that the narrator in her head is actually making fun of her, and it's nice to know that someone cares enough to pay attention, but not like this.

"I am more annoyed with you than you will ever know," she says to the narrator, who cannot hear, or it would be written, it would be wood, glass, and stone.

In the end, she hits the cow, trying to avoid the cow she runs straight into it, and hits it so directly that either there is a sudden death or the kind of energy exchange that the souls change place.  She isn't sure what this is, except she is aware that they are both still breathing, and that might or might not be a good thing.  She is only aware that she is even more annoyed with the narrator by now, who she cuts out and cuts out over and over again, but it always comes back.

"Why do you keep coming back?" she says.

And the narrator (which is nothing less than her ego, and nothing more), has this to say.  "I have been watching you do these same things over and over for such a long time that I've learned how to make a rhythm from your repetitions, and I am the song running through the back of your mind, the back of your mind, whenever something is about to start again.  You were praying last night to be more connecting to the things that are, and even though there are no ouija boards in this cafe of your mind, the dead speak through the living, and the living might not be limited to your blood relatives, and might include the plants and the cows.  This is something that I arranged because I love you so very much and you always turn away before the meat starts to turn juicy.  This is the butter sauce of the things you lost, and there are birds flying from your mouth whenever you feel so very much alone.  Pay attention to them."

At this moment, and not uncoincidentally, the flock of birds before her eyes thinned out, and as they thinned and their number turned from a hundred to three, she understood that this was love and that this was war, and that the ones who left the sky were settling in her stomach.  It would not be so bad if they were not trying to peck their way out, but that's what they do.  She doesn't want to think about him, but she does, and she wishes for a revolution as violent as the last one, only this time she hopes that they both get to wake up, in a warm room, with daughters who don't turn into giants, looking at each other through the eyes of cows, who know more, who know so much more, than we like to think, and all of the other things that don't go away even though they might be dead and buried. 


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