Thanksgiving

is an odd holiday to spend alone.
alienating to observe how oppositional I have become:
a belief system outside the celebration,
one of those left-coast cliches that hates left-coast cliches.
vegan feminist. well that's original.
at least I don't meditate on the cellular level.
no dredlocks, no pichouli, no tie-dye,
just the cool and slippery realization that I really believe all this, perhaps more than is healthy.
and think about it, perhaps more than the inhabitants of VW vans that live along the cliff that looks over the pacific ocean, who live off the guilt and generosity of the liberal bourgeoisie.
turkey and conquest and the alienation that wafts off the smooth and beautiful skin of that boy whose bed I lay in.
who has no idea how to express his passion except through cliches he's picked up in movies.
who doesn't read unless it'll help him in the lab.
whose apartment is clean like the den of a doctor.
who gathers facts and rationally mulls over purchases before making them.
has he mulled me over?
why doesn't solitud feel more rational than this?
it's just me and a pile of work to do--why aren't the two of us coming together in a more productive and expedient manner?--instead of just baking and jogging and eating and blogging and making coffee and watching a movie and making mate and drinking mate and now I think I'll have a salad.