yellow

I remembered that the root was called yellowdock, or yellow dock. I don't know if it's properly one word, or two. The tea looks like piss, but smells kind of earthy and good. Not being able to procure any molasses, I drank it straight. Bitter, yes. Dirt and smoke and unripe fruit. It wasn't terrible, though, once I got used to it. I can't claim to like the taste, but when it's hot, it isn't so noticeable, and bitter is how you know it's good for you, Diana said. I'm going to take it for a few days and see if I feel more ironic. I mean, unanemic. I mean, any different in my veins and arteries, in my heart. Whatever.

* * * * * *

And I love bonfires more than most things, even the way their smoke and ash blows towards me and stings my eyes. I will sit around them and listen to other people prattle for a lot longer than I normally would, just watching the yellow and orange flames flicker and stretch themselves and sway, the logs crumbling slowly as they grow skinnier and more charred. Other people's conversations can be really interesting, but an awful lot of them seem to involve complaining about or making fun of people who aren't present, and sometimes that gets wearing and sad. And it's one of those spheres where I feel like I'm missing this big piece of Norms and Values Protocol, like pages 51 through 73 in my How To Be An Ordinary Human manual were replaced with random sections from a Japanese comic book and grainy photographs of spider monkeys as the result of a metaphysical printing error. I don't understand why refusing to drink alcohol automatically makes someone boring and unfun, or how to tell the difference between people who are Really Weird, For Real, But In A Cool Way, You Know and people who are only Pretending To Be Really Quirky, And, Like, Doing All This Weird Shit, But It's Just To Get Attention And Make Everyone Think They're Interesting and people who are simply Creepy, or Insane, or Freaks (pejorative), or Freaks (admiring). In the second category, I'm not sure I'd consider smoking a pipe ostentatiously eccentric, especially not at the hippie/geek/angry anarchist/ragamuffin/rummage sale reject/punk/oddball-filled college I attend. But apparently, I don't understand these things. Still, I love bonfires more than most things, stretching my hands out till they become silhouettes against the glow and the talk and laughter of the other girls fills the dark like fireflies emerging from the throat of a sleeping bird.