wish you were here

How the fuck do I wake up at 8:30 on my day off?

Things to do today: take a bath. Format chapbook. Go see Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events. Play Pittsburgh in a Box. Drink. Possibly in that order.

The only reason I get snippy with friends sometimes is that I hate seeing them angry at themselves. I hate the self-deprecating stuff, when it’s serious and you can’t argue with them about it. And it’s not that I don’t understand, ’cause I do it myself. At least, I want to stop doing it in the next year. But. I do get owning your feelings and having every right to not explain yourself. I do get that.

Anyway. After getting fresh bagels last week with Scott, I’m really tempted to go get some this morning. But that means I actually have to put shoes on and leave the house. Poo. Maybe before I start doing work today.

This next chapbook’s gonna be pretty good. For me, I just like having the poems I like to read all consolidated into one place.

However, the fact that I haven’t written any fiction in a very long time is starting to grate on me. Especially considering how much shopping around I’ve done agent-wise with the novels.

2005 is going to be big. I promise.

I’m off kilter today, but not because of lack of sleep or somesuch.

I worry. I haven’t been able to get right.

Gregory’s reading tonight was, as is custom, gorgeous.

I know it will get better. I just want this year to be over so it can finally get to be better. And I have a chapbook to finish.

I keep having gut feelings that I know won’t come true. Or maybe they’re daydreams that my gut tells me won’t happen.

I want to crush on someone and be completely fucking open and 5 years old about it.

And I want to feel comfortable when a guy I’ve just met gets really touchy feely with me, unlike last night.

I haven’t stared at someone from across the room at a bar for quite awhile now.

I make too many demands. I’m going to bed.

I’ve been so busy this morning at work, and now I have no brain power left to memorize stuff for next week’s feature.

Sometimes, I feel like I want to be the only one. But I’m not. Sarah Brightman makes me depressed.

The poems for the chapbook are almost completely compiled.

There’s one poem I have to ask permission to include, but that’s up to you if you want me to put it in there.

It was nice to get money today, but I don’t want to work tomorrow. Er, today.

Today, for some reason, I was just shakey and excited and full of butterflies for no reason at all whatsoever.

Who’s excited? Who’s nervous?

Today was a really kickass Christmas, which I haven’t had in a very, very long time.

There are people to thank, but you all read this, so thank you.

Now I’m winding down, and winding down the warmness I’ve been feeling for the past three days. I’m home by myself again, and I have to work tomorrow.

My heart aches for my list of intentions to come to fruition.

This week has been very strange. I’m not really sure how to break things down. I’ve basically been thinking a lot lately about the power in the thoughts of intent.

Basically, my Yule lasted three days. Strange, but according to my Witches’ Calendar, the 23rd is called the Between in Celtic Tree Astrology. Almost too much sense. Today the last-minute shopping got done, and I actually ended up getting something else entirely for the second half of your present, though it’s related to what I was originally going to give you. But you’ll find out soon.

I have to apologize to Sean and Tim for ducking out Tuesday. Normally I would be into a big party, but only knowing a few people there was a feeling I haven’t really felt in long time. And I over dramatize. But I think I’d had a small anxiety attack while I was there, which I’ve never had before. I don’t even think I can explain it.

Yesterday, people were asking me if I was okay. And I was. I just felt like being quiet. I was thinking of the list of intentions for next year, and how burning it felt right because the paper went up so quickly and it finally felt like the right thing to do for once. There were fresh bagels, episodes of comedies about fathers, movies, sleeping, emails and messages, and a few pints. I am blessed.

However, tomorrow is not looking the best. I’ve already gotten a call from the bar about my brother being out tonight, so he’ll probably be hung over when I get over there tomorrow. Which, also, reminds me a little of Dad. Unfortunately. But, I’ll be heading over to Dee Dee’s for dinner, which will probably feel more like it used to. I don’t know.

I think I’m going to work on something before bed, so I may post later.

We’re almost there.

There is an actual update coming here, but I have last-minute shopping to do. Phooey.

I always feel in a haze on Sundays.

I feel really… I don’t know. There’s something about a new week starting. I don’t know why, exactly. I want to have fun this week, and really work out what I need to work out, and I want this Thursday to really mean something this year, and not just be sad. Messages.

I actually wrote something that’s workable today. Praise the Universe. I’ve been thinking about how it used to be that I’d write something, perform it, and it would happen, or he’d do it:

the birthmarks and freckles on his back
are like coffee stains
and standing in the middle of my stanzas
he writes my lines on the backs of his hands
so they’ll both be familiar
as if vowels would guide veins
to reclaim his fingertips
and I can’t even read the Braille
rising with the hairs on my arm
if only he could read me
but between lines is only skin
and in between minds is only air
and hair only becomes real when caught
and I can’t breathe
and can’t remember where I am
’cause it isn’t the place
it’s the face I could trace in my sleep
it’s the smile I only feel when my back’s turned
but he’s not looking when I’m looking
and I’m not looking when he’s looking
whispers keeping me up when I have to sleep
when he can’t think of anything else
but to come in my dreams and make me laugh
notes left under pillows
under thoughts
under skin
and underneath penstrokes
thumbprints on cheeks
and weeks of trying to recall his voice
when it’s only been days
questions only echoing because they’re waiting
like I am
like I’ve been
like I’ve been tied to resigning myself
to thinking I didn’t need anything
but a pen
and he holds it
poised to stop poisoning
and start watering seeds
already planted with a breath
between air and hair
and blood vessels
and less word
and more memory
for later

To do: Make list. Be specific. Write it down. Tell Dad. Burn it on New Year’s.

Why do I suddenly feel the urge to call, email, text, IM, or post everywhere, to all my friends, and suddenly say I’m Sorry, even if it’s for no reason at all?