I just got done writing one of the most difficult emails I’ve ever had to write. And it was for real.
Right now I’m just scared and feel a little dumb. I put myself out there.
But I said what I felt I had to say. If it just goes to the wind, it goes into the wind.
Today started off going well. I was feeling better about my allergies, I slept well, and I was planning on having a quiet day downloading songs.
All of a sudden I’m in the middle of more chaos.
At first I felt all red-faced and strange. Now I’m just angry that people won’t talk. And confused.
I don’t know if this is done yet.
i’ve got my boots on
underwater,
a better drowing accessory
than every line i’ve ever drawn.
i put them on myself, you know.
one at a time
i sabotaged
all the voices,
made them liquid
and lucid,
and now i can’t breathe.
now I can’t
seem to see it all.
everything’s spinning,
and in the midst
it’s as if change
was spilt on the floor.
the ghosts want to know,
they want to see your way
through broken glass
and shattered water,
they want
every inch of information
indications of life
now lying inert
like held breath.
all i see are my hands,
and already
i’m starting to close my eyes,
hiding.
God I’m feeling older every time I go out. I’m just not into the bar thing. Crown & Anchor is good– at least there you can eat a proper meal and have a decent pint– but otherwise it’s just full of boredom. Is it bad of me just to want to be a cafe bitch the rest of my days?
I mean, I wasn’t really into going anywhere tonight, and I felt like crap all over. But the girls being girls had to go out. And I was in the house all day so I had to be out somewhere. Mostly I just stood there with a Shirley Temple in my hand and chomped on cherries.
And then winding down at Crown we talked about sex, which still doesn’t make me feel better about being involunarily celibate. I just miss that stuff sometimes– you know, the whole warm body thing. But I curl up with pillows in the meantime.
Sudafed really does make you high. Swear to god. Take the regular decongestant during the day and the sinus & allergy before bed, and the world just goes away. I’m still coughing like I’m about to lose a lung, though.
So the kids are still here. The house looks like a hurricane swept through and killed what semblence of cleanliness my brother and I had made earlier in the day. Tomorrow I’m gonna mop the floor since they spilled all kinds of sticky juice on it.
Ugh. I just want to have a clear head again. Hopefully soon. Right now I don’t even want to leave the house. I’m afraid to get in my car.
I keep thinking of my Dad again. This is good. It means that I’m more about healing than hurting. I don’t want to get all covered up in the comfort of my own crap. I don’t expect things to be the same like they were when he died. I just expect them to be better. Even when I act like a complete weirdo (not to be confused with idiodicy, which has been known to happen), I don’t ever not think about everybody.
Of course, like people have said before, I just think too much.
I shouldn’t be posting, but I am. I’m about to take some Sinus & Allergy stuff before I fade out.
My nephews turn 3 today. And I think it’ll be the first day I’ll be able to get to fall asleep properly in about a week.
And it doesn’t help that my allergies kicked in yesterday, either.
I finished this tonight. I started it on Monday.
17
his eyes were blue.
his eyes were blue
piercing through the blooms,
the black blue flowers
stained in my brain.
his hair was black.
his hair was black
falling all around his face
like laced snakes,
Medusa’s son.
I thought he was true.
I thought
he really knew.
he didn’t want me,
he wanted my hands
to do the work, he wanted to
take the taste from my mouth,
he wanted
to tell me
all the secrets of
all the fallen walls.
he wanted
a piece of me,
skin locked inside
eyes looking for something,
anything,
to be flowers:
he loves me
he loves me not.
he wants to
own me,
signed, sealed,
delivered,
devirginized
and devalued.
all he got
were blue and black kisses,
a missed opportunity
for bragging rights.
but if he wants,
marred memories are good, too.
What is the difference between deception and discretion? There is no definitive answer. Since time immemorial this question has troubled the conscience of the wise and smoothed the path of the ruthless. We can none of us ever be sure how much we should say or how far we should go. When does a white lie become a dark conspiracy? When does a frank admission become a source of unnecessary stress? I shall leave you to wrestle with that one over the weekend. Good luck! But don�t spend too much time worrying about it.
