XII

When I don’t shower, my hair gets that greasy rocker-chick look of unkempt gorgeousness. It shimmers in the light from the oil and blonde streaks, which decide to come out of hiding in the summer time with the excess of light. Golden, sparkling, and beautiful. So many people tell me I have the hair of a goddess, and if I ever cut it I would have to face their wrath. It makes me feel whole when I donate it to cancer patients. It grows like fresh grass; fast and fresh and healthy. The tips are what I worry about, since they like to split quite fast.


I’m not really sure where I’m headed, and lately it seems like I avoid future-questions posed by my parents or the people around me. My mind isn’t ready to establish a permanence. Neither is my heart.

Lenore kneads bread in my lap when she sits with me at my computer. Her black fur is short and pitch, smooth and shiny. She is the most beautiful feline I have ever seen, her Persian/Siamese bone structure, particularly in her face, so refined and godly. I see her as a Baast or Egyptian guardian of the underworld, her body covered in gold jewelry and her idolic stance revered and held in awe.


My English professor told me his son would kill to have my ball cap today. I sported my green Doors hat over my hair’s shiny roots, partly in embarrassment for not having taken the time to clean up as most of the other students in my class had. There were a couple of grungy-looking 21-year-olds that came in that way every day, so I felt a little consoled.


But Mangum said his son had made a pilgrimage to see Jim Morrison’s grave. I thought it would be a wonderful thing to go to France and see it. I remember an ex-friend of mine bragging to me that she’d seen it, and I wanted to shout “DO YOU EVEN HAVE A FUCKING CLUE WHO JIM MORRISON IS?” and hear her apparently-justified reaction in “well gosh, Lauren, I’ve listened to the Doors before, jeeze.” Listened to the Doors before, warranting your obvious knowledge of Jim Morrison’s soul. I read his poetry often, and have delved into his music with a pulsing passion only given to the select few on this planet (who at least recognize and harness and use it regularly. I use it on a daily basis.). My connection with Jim is something unrivaled by many others’. I can say that confidently, as Jim has helped me through some difficult times with his words and his voice and his music. And I will defend to this day that he was more of an alcoholic than anything else.


He captures the moving soul and the emptiness branded on and in me.


I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes

I am struck
By the feather
Of your soft
Reply

The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain

And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
-From Wilderness


Well, here goes another dream.