molded model
weather like this on nites like this is probably my favourite. clear skies. you can see the stars; the moon, the necessary smudge of lite, glowing smoker's-teeth yellow. the air is crisp and demands your attention and a sweater, even for a brief walk. you can see every breath, and hear every thot.
it's time for me to start admitting that there's something strange about my body. like 'missing link' strange.
when i find myself in those states of mind where i re-realise what a general threat i am to people around me, it's too easy to draw metaphors from my own bodily functions and secretions. for instance, some fluke in my rearside tends to burn holes thru my shorts. i used to think it was funny. also, my sweat is acidic or something. er, not acidic... what's bleach, a base? it's basic. it changes the colours of my clothes. i forgot about it while i was in seattle, because i didn't sweat much there. but in savannah, my blue shirts were burned with pinkish marks, my red with a lite yellow. i used to think it had to do with my degergent reacting with my sweat. but i've changed detergents plenty of times. my green shirt i hitchhiked in had streaks of yellow on it by the end of the trip. also, there was that brief psychotic epoch where my feet developed a mind of their own, and became blood-thirsty werewolves at nite. that sucked.
and then there's the matter of the alcohol, and how, no matter how much i drink i never get a hangover. why is it that i can down a half-liter of scotch whisky in one sitting (as i did last nite) and then carry on a comprehensible conversation with a dear friend online after using a chinese internet browser to download and install another one in english so i could find the plugin that would let me use the dutch version of AIM that someone else had downloaded before me? why do i remember everything i did and thot and said up to the point where i sat down on the couch? what do i make of kelly's story?
he told me how he'd woken up to the sound of firecrackers, after remembering that we didn't have any more popcorn. he almost fell asleep when he noticed a smell. when he stepped out of his room there was smoke in the air; the smell of something burning. he came into the dining area and found: the kitchen lites on, the television on, two candles burning on the wooden coffee table, one burning in the window sill, with the flame licking the bottom of the wooden blinds, and the stove on hi with a pot full of noodles that were quite busy being burned. and me, sitting uprite on the couch, my head bowed down like so.
he opened all the windows. it was 4 degrees celcius last nite, but he had to get rid of the smoke. he turned off the stove. he came over to wake me up to tell me my supper was ready. but i wouldn't budge. he said he shook me and started shouting at me, but i just sat there, hands in my lap. nothing. this all woke up the polish, who came in to see what was going on. this was at five in the morning; they usually get up at six. kelly was tired and went back to bed. so did the polish. but he said he just lay there; couldn't sleep. then he realised that i mite be dead. so he came back out and shook me some more, told me to wake up; nothing. i just sat there, propped on my elbows, in a trance or something. then he put his ear to my face to see if i was still breathing. he said, "and you were," then pointed at me with his hand and said, "well, obviously," which was, actually as they say, so funny i forgot to laff.
what i remember after sitting on the couch was waking up quietly at 6 a.m., standing up, noticing the windows were open, going around to shut them, seeing the noodles completely burnt on the stove, realising i never finished making my dinner and connecting the burnt pan with the open windows, then climbing in the sleeping bag and finishing my sleep, where i dreamt i walked around some ancient wintery street in a wool trenchcoat and scarf, listening to patsy cline sing "lonely."
when the polish came home, danka came at me with a clenched fist and half a smile. she said she'd kill me, and oh her pot, her pot. i pulled it out of the cupboard to show her that i'd fixed it up new. we all sat around ridiculing me and letting the incident evolve into jokes about tying me up before everyone else went to bed. maybe not a bad idea. kelly suggested that, if i've been drinking and i want to cook, just make sure i don't sit down. hold the pot handle, even, so if you fall asleep standing up at least you'll take the pot off the stove on your way to the floor. danka says i'm not allowed to drink for two days. chris asked if we wanted to see the video from sunday. we didn't, so he plugged in his camera to the telly and put it on.
sunday was when kelly's girlfriend got into town, and when he and i taut everyone how to play poker, and the first time i played guitar for the group, at kelly's drunken request. i'd always been somewhat curious to see what i looked like when i played. i've long been over the discomfort of hearing my own recorded voice... for the most part. but i'd never seen a video of me singing. it was strange, of course. but mostly strange because i looked ... strong. i hadn't been expecting that.
despite certain probable exaggerations (we all could have died from the carbon monoxide!) i was glad to see that everyone was so openly upset and disappointed in me for this stupid mistake. it was a very stupid and dangerous mistake. and i was very sorry. it was not okay that i had been so careless, and i was glad that everyone immediately approached me about what i'd done.
but it also seemed to confirm what i'd been thinking that same nite: that i am foremost a threat and danger to people around me. i have all the dominoes in place to be one of those people who just snaps one day and initiates a massacre. and sometimes i wonder if my body mite be harbouring some kind of virus that's slowly maturing, affecting me over the course of its evolution in ways that seem supernatural -- even empowering -- to me, but ultimately making me a ticking genetic time bomb. i just wonder, that's all. i mean, the nite of that car wreck, i watched my leg bend completely backwards at the knee, three times. but when i stood up there was only the cut on my foot. and how did my sister fit out of a hole in the windshield the size of a fist?
i know that the people who've gone sour and done stuff that's been considered "insane" and whatnot are often the people who get the idea in their head that they're special, they're unique, there's some great singular purpose for their life, all that, but without a religion or generally culturally- or socially-accepted community resource to attach themselves to a group of "similarly-special" people so that their convictions automatically stand trial in an inherent resource for validation. so i have to make sure i don't go that route, thinking i'm something of a 'special case,' unless i can bind myself to a religion or similar community. for years now i've been balancing on that thin wire between both worlds, which is another way of saying i've been living without an anchoring point for "what's real." it's as much an achievement as an abolishment. wait.. that's the wrong word. oh, i'm tired of writing this down.
i don't think last nite had to do with me not knowing my own limitations. i don't say this to blame kelly, but as part of a checklist that tells me i was pretty aware of what i was doing ... to a point. i told kelly that, if i get really drunk, it's good for me to have someone else around because i tend to do stupid things. not like dangerous things, like getting fites, but just really stupid stuff. and when i started in on the bottle last nite, before kelly went to bed, i found myself telling him how, if i remember correctly, it's whisky that's had a history with me of doing funny things to my head. my body recognises it like it was a drug that was administered to me as an infant. i wonder if my milk was spiked, or if that alcoholic daddio was just so juiced when he stuck my mom that i was born part-alcohol. hey, there's an idea.
i also told him that i kinda felt like getting trashed that nite. i wasn't feeling too good about chelsea cancelling on me for the third nite in a row. this last time she'd said 'definitely, definitely' and then when i called her she said, again, "i'm sorry, i'm with some friends rite now. but definitely tomorrow. definitely." and all i could think was, why can't i be one of those friends? we hit it off like old college roommates or something that first nite, and she made all these plans to do things with me, i wanted to take her to a play, she wanted to take me to a museum, there were bars i needed to learn, music i needed to hear, rooftops to be scoured. and such a promise in her tone when she said "call me." but by the third nite it'd simply broken me.
and martina. lovely martina. she goes back to italy tomorrow morning. for ten days. but i'm going to miss her. i find myself handing her pure compliments without thinking about what i'm saying; no gimmicks included. it's just nice. and i really enjoy her company. and, oddly enuff, somehow i make her laff. and she can floor me with a single glance, or a word. she's been a great work-place sister to have around. and i've been relieved with how comfortable i am around her, knowing that i don't want anything from her other than what and who she already is. she's... well, one of the most 'people' i've known, as opposed to 'ideas'. if that makes any sense. i just enjoy her.
but she's another empty promiser. she promised to bring that dvd tomorrow. oh no, sorry, tomorrow. and the cd i loaned her. oh, i'll bring it back tomorrow. and we'll get coffee or go out dancing. for sure. maybe later this week. can i buy you a drink? yes, thank you, but i'm busy. maybe some other nite this week. i don't think she's ever lying or is afraid of me. she just makes plans with me that don't follow thru. and that's fine. if that's who she is, then i'd just learn to not regularly depend on her. but i guess i got really hooked on the idea of the last promise we'd made.
we were going to sing a song together, with the guitar, before she went back to italy. i told her that, if we did sing together, i'd tell her that "other secret." (a couple weeks prior, i whispered while we were washing vegetables in the sink that i had a secret to tell her. she lost interest in the vegetables and stared at me until i finally confessed something like "i just burped." she rolled her eyes. i said, "i'll tell you another secret," and she immediately cut me off, saying no no, she didn't want to know. so what i've been saving and savouring is the fact and now secret that the best part of my day when i get to work with her is when she sings. there's just something about a woman standing rite there, singing out loud. and she has a fine voice, and sings often, to my absolute delite.) she told me what song she wanted to sing, a norah jones tune. i looked up the lyrics and chords, learned it. showed her the sheet. talked about it every day. then there's two days left and we haven't sung. she promises definitely tomorrow. definitely. yes, i want to, yes, definitely. i thot it mite be a little under-the-wire and stressful if she was leaving the next day, so i told her not to worry, just let it go, we'd sing when she got back. but she insisted, and i asked her five times, are you sure? yes, i'm sure. yes. i got the feeling she was just trying not to have to back out of yet another promise. i did my best to explain to her that i wasn't going to be heartbroken or anything. i just really wanted to sing with her, that's all. and she insisted that, yes, tomorrow nite. i said, okay, well i'll come by at seven then. you're sure? yes, yes, i'm sure. okay. and i took her at her word.
i had the day off, and i spent it warming up my voice and hands and practising and singing and walking and singing some more. i didn't eat any creamy foods, because they make my throat burn when i sing. i stretched my upper and lower limits. i smoked the rite amount of cigarettes at the rite intervals. i spent the day enjoying my voice.
then i walked into the cafe with my guitar. she was leaning over the prep station, scrubbing the thing down like i do almost every nite. she looked suddenly very lovely and i knew i was going to miss her more than i should really and my stomache clenched and then i realised it was the perfect crisp autumn air and intermittent blue skies that had got my eyes going all romantical, so i flushed the feeling with a silent chuckle. then her face scrunched up, into the look of a sorrowful apology. she couldn't do it tonite, and she was sorry. but she looked like she was ready to beg me not to punish her. martina, you didn't kill my first born or anything. you're off the hook. i told you it'd be alrite to sing later, when you get back.
but she looked so devistated, standing there, hands all soapy, a face full of lines, looking like she wished she could write my heart a check for all the blood and tears i'd spilled over this misfortune. it did suck, a lot. but i wasn't mad at her. i was just ... i just really wanted to sing with her.
she apologised over and over and then, oddly, asked me if i was still going to be in ireland when she returned. this was odd because i realised i didn't know the answer but heard myself saying, "yes. of course."
she asked how my day was, how i was. i told her i had mixed feelings, because the day was so lovely and i'd enjoyed it, but after some thinking i knew that i was going to miss her very much. her face pinched inward and her whole body kind of shut like a clasp as the small stone of appreciation or admiration or whatever struck her. then she came in for a quick hug and said, simply, "thank you."
later, at the store, buying up a small armory of comfort chocolate, i realised what amanda must have felt like, those times when she'd anticipated something going a certain way, and then it didn't. i only had a vague concept of what that felt like when i was with her. but tonite i finally understood how it actually felt ... to be let down. i guess that also means that this was something i really cared about. but how did i make it to 24 without feeling disappointment?
i guess i kind of stopped expecting or anticipating anything important from other people after the years of living with my mom's ineptitude. er, rather, knack for showing up three hours late to anything that was ever of great importance to me, and time-sensitive. i do remember the burning feeling of my shock at her tardiness. but, well, come to think of it, i guess i only started to notice this trend after about nine or ten years old. as a younger child, she'd already left me at a parade, a few airports, and occasionally simply forgot to pick me up from school.
these days, with my own knack for forgetting something as soon as i turn my back on it, i wonder if i'm developing her 'gift.' seriously, i mean i'll be making something in the kitchen, like a salad, and turn around to grab some tomatoes to put on top, and completely forget what i'm doing. this happens like forty times a day. i guess this explains why people say it looks like i'm dancing when i'm working. i'm just trying to move in a way that lets me see everything at once... because i have the memory of a fish.
post script
tracie, you're an angel.
kh, if there was a printer here, i'd be sleeping with your artwork tonite.
post post script
as per the sadness,
last nite, after i got off the phone with chelsea, i stood on our balcony, watching the sky do absolutely nothing. i was thinking about the nite after the gin&tonic in seattle. i was remembering melissa, sitting in that chair in the dark, while i did something in the kitchen. she said, if she heard about anyone else spending a nite with some gin&tonics, she wouldn't think anything of it. but when she heard that i'd hit the gin, she thot, oh, he must be so sad. and i walked over and hugged her on the chair, because she'd just snapped my heart in two, like a communion wafer. i was thinking, last nite, of how i'd give anything to have that specific hug rite there, rite then, again. i was thinking i'd give anything to have that hug again. then i thot of what that 'anything' would entail, and i considered my little pile of worldly posessions in the corner of the living room, and i realised i had nothing to offer; no proof or evidence to coroborate my sadness; nothing to trade for a hug. a few photographs and some smelly socks. after that, i started to sink lower and lower.
i knew that i'd been craving a hug for quite a while, and hadn't gotten to cry recently. i knew that part of me wanted to meet up with chelsea again just so that we could share a hug, because she's the closest thing i know to a safe and unquestionable hug, and we'd already raised the flag of our sibling-esque friendship. i also knew i was afraid to feel my sadness full on. if i slipped into some darker place, i didn't have anyone nearby -- no amanda, who'd cocooned me with love on the gin&tonic nite, or rooni, who'd done the same years prior -- who could hold me and rock me until i landed on my feet again. the nearest safe and willing arms would require scaring my new friend, but even then, i already tried her on the phone, where she sang the now-familiar song of "i'm sorry... not tonite. tomorrow."
so i bottomed out, a bit. and i guess i can chalk it all up, with a *sniff*, to growing pains.
it's time for me to start admitting that there's something strange about my body. like 'missing link' strange.
when i find myself in those states of mind where i re-realise what a general threat i am to people around me, it's too easy to draw metaphors from my own bodily functions and secretions. for instance, some fluke in my rearside tends to burn holes thru my shorts. i used to think it was funny. also, my sweat is acidic or something. er, not acidic... what's bleach, a base? it's basic. it changes the colours of my clothes. i forgot about it while i was in seattle, because i didn't sweat much there. but in savannah, my blue shirts were burned with pinkish marks, my red with a lite yellow. i used to think it had to do with my degergent reacting with my sweat. but i've changed detergents plenty of times. my green shirt i hitchhiked in had streaks of yellow on it by the end of the trip. also, there was that brief psychotic epoch where my feet developed a mind of their own, and became blood-thirsty werewolves at nite. that sucked.
and then there's the matter of the alcohol, and how, no matter how much i drink i never get a hangover. why is it that i can down a half-liter of scotch whisky in one sitting (as i did last nite) and then carry on a comprehensible conversation with a dear friend online after using a chinese internet browser to download and install another one in english so i could find the plugin that would let me use the dutch version of AIM that someone else had downloaded before me? why do i remember everything i did and thot and said up to the point where i sat down on the couch? what do i make of kelly's story?
he told me how he'd woken up to the sound of firecrackers, after remembering that we didn't have any more popcorn. he almost fell asleep when he noticed a smell. when he stepped out of his room there was smoke in the air; the smell of something burning. he came into the dining area and found: the kitchen lites on, the television on, two candles burning on the wooden coffee table, one burning in the window sill, with the flame licking the bottom of the wooden blinds, and the stove on hi with a pot full of noodles that were quite busy being burned. and me, sitting uprite on the couch, my head bowed down like so.
he opened all the windows. it was 4 degrees celcius last nite, but he had to get rid of the smoke. he turned off the stove. he came over to wake me up to tell me my supper was ready. but i wouldn't budge. he said he shook me and started shouting at me, but i just sat there, hands in my lap. nothing. this all woke up the polish, who came in to see what was going on. this was at five in the morning; they usually get up at six. kelly was tired and went back to bed. so did the polish. but he said he just lay there; couldn't sleep. then he realised that i mite be dead. so he came back out and shook me some more, told me to wake up; nothing. i just sat there, propped on my elbows, in a trance or something. then he put his ear to my face to see if i was still breathing. he said, "and you were," then pointed at me with his hand and said, "well, obviously," which was, actually as they say, so funny i forgot to laff.
what i remember after sitting on the couch was waking up quietly at 6 a.m., standing up, noticing the windows were open, going around to shut them, seeing the noodles completely burnt on the stove, realising i never finished making my dinner and connecting the burnt pan with the open windows, then climbing in the sleeping bag and finishing my sleep, where i dreamt i walked around some ancient wintery street in a wool trenchcoat and scarf, listening to patsy cline sing "lonely."
when the polish came home, danka came at me with a clenched fist and half a smile. she said she'd kill me, and oh her pot, her pot. i pulled it out of the cupboard to show her that i'd fixed it up new. we all sat around ridiculing me and letting the incident evolve into jokes about tying me up before everyone else went to bed. maybe not a bad idea. kelly suggested that, if i've been drinking and i want to cook, just make sure i don't sit down. hold the pot handle, even, so if you fall asleep standing up at least you'll take the pot off the stove on your way to the floor. danka says i'm not allowed to drink for two days. chris asked if we wanted to see the video from sunday. we didn't, so he plugged in his camera to the telly and put it on.
sunday was when kelly's girlfriend got into town, and when he and i taut everyone how to play poker, and the first time i played guitar for the group, at kelly's drunken request. i'd always been somewhat curious to see what i looked like when i played. i've long been over the discomfort of hearing my own recorded voice... for the most part. but i'd never seen a video of me singing. it was strange, of course. but mostly strange because i looked ... strong. i hadn't been expecting that.
despite certain probable exaggerations (we all could have died from the carbon monoxide!) i was glad to see that everyone was so openly upset and disappointed in me for this stupid mistake. it was a very stupid and dangerous mistake. and i was very sorry. it was not okay that i had been so careless, and i was glad that everyone immediately approached me about what i'd done.
but it also seemed to confirm what i'd been thinking that same nite: that i am foremost a threat and danger to people around me. i have all the dominoes in place to be one of those people who just snaps one day and initiates a massacre. and sometimes i wonder if my body mite be harbouring some kind of virus that's slowly maturing, affecting me over the course of its evolution in ways that seem supernatural -- even empowering -- to me, but ultimately making me a ticking genetic time bomb. i just wonder, that's all. i mean, the nite of that car wreck, i watched my leg bend completely backwards at the knee, three times. but when i stood up there was only the cut on my foot. and how did my sister fit out of a hole in the windshield the size of a fist?
i know that the people who've gone sour and done stuff that's been considered "insane" and whatnot are often the people who get the idea in their head that they're special, they're unique, there's some great singular purpose for their life, all that, but without a religion or generally culturally- or socially-accepted community resource to attach themselves to a group of "similarly-special" people so that their convictions automatically stand trial in an inherent resource for validation. so i have to make sure i don't go that route, thinking i'm something of a 'special case,' unless i can bind myself to a religion or similar community. for years now i've been balancing on that thin wire between both worlds, which is another way of saying i've been living without an anchoring point for "what's real." it's as much an achievement as an abolishment. wait.. that's the wrong word. oh, i'm tired of writing this down.
i don't think last nite had to do with me not knowing my own limitations. i don't say this to blame kelly, but as part of a checklist that tells me i was pretty aware of what i was doing ... to a point. i told kelly that, if i get really drunk, it's good for me to have someone else around because i tend to do stupid things. not like dangerous things, like getting fites, but just really stupid stuff. and when i started in on the bottle last nite, before kelly went to bed, i found myself telling him how, if i remember correctly, it's whisky that's had a history with me of doing funny things to my head. my body recognises it like it was a drug that was administered to me as an infant. i wonder if my milk was spiked, or if that alcoholic daddio was just so juiced when he stuck my mom that i was born part-alcohol. hey, there's an idea.
i also told him that i kinda felt like getting trashed that nite. i wasn't feeling too good about chelsea cancelling on me for the third nite in a row. this last time she'd said 'definitely, definitely' and then when i called her she said, again, "i'm sorry, i'm with some friends rite now. but definitely tomorrow. definitely." and all i could think was, why can't i be one of those friends? we hit it off like old college roommates or something that first nite, and she made all these plans to do things with me, i wanted to take her to a play, she wanted to take me to a museum, there were bars i needed to learn, music i needed to hear, rooftops to be scoured. and such a promise in her tone when she said "call me." but by the third nite it'd simply broken me.
and martina. lovely martina. she goes back to italy tomorrow morning. for ten days. but i'm going to miss her. i find myself handing her pure compliments without thinking about what i'm saying; no gimmicks included. it's just nice. and i really enjoy her company. and, oddly enuff, somehow i make her laff. and she can floor me with a single glance, or a word. she's been a great work-place sister to have around. and i've been relieved with how comfortable i am around her, knowing that i don't want anything from her other than what and who she already is. she's... well, one of the most 'people' i've known, as opposed to 'ideas'. if that makes any sense. i just enjoy her.
but she's another empty promiser. she promised to bring that dvd tomorrow. oh no, sorry, tomorrow. and the cd i loaned her. oh, i'll bring it back tomorrow. and we'll get coffee or go out dancing. for sure. maybe later this week. can i buy you a drink? yes, thank you, but i'm busy. maybe some other nite this week. i don't think she's ever lying or is afraid of me. she just makes plans with me that don't follow thru. and that's fine. if that's who she is, then i'd just learn to not regularly depend on her. but i guess i got really hooked on the idea of the last promise we'd made.
we were going to sing a song together, with the guitar, before she went back to italy. i told her that, if we did sing together, i'd tell her that "other secret." (a couple weeks prior, i whispered while we were washing vegetables in the sink that i had a secret to tell her. she lost interest in the vegetables and stared at me until i finally confessed something like "i just burped." she rolled her eyes. i said, "i'll tell you another secret," and she immediately cut me off, saying no no, she didn't want to know. so what i've been saving and savouring is the fact and now secret that the best part of my day when i get to work with her is when she sings. there's just something about a woman standing rite there, singing out loud. and she has a fine voice, and sings often, to my absolute delite.) she told me what song she wanted to sing, a norah jones tune. i looked up the lyrics and chords, learned it. showed her the sheet. talked about it every day. then there's two days left and we haven't sung. she promises definitely tomorrow. definitely. yes, i want to, yes, definitely. i thot it mite be a little under-the-wire and stressful if she was leaving the next day, so i told her not to worry, just let it go, we'd sing when she got back. but she insisted, and i asked her five times, are you sure? yes, i'm sure. yes. i got the feeling she was just trying not to have to back out of yet another promise. i did my best to explain to her that i wasn't going to be heartbroken or anything. i just really wanted to sing with her, that's all. and she insisted that, yes, tomorrow nite. i said, okay, well i'll come by at seven then. you're sure? yes, yes, i'm sure. okay. and i took her at her word.
i had the day off, and i spent it warming up my voice and hands and practising and singing and walking and singing some more. i didn't eat any creamy foods, because they make my throat burn when i sing. i stretched my upper and lower limits. i smoked the rite amount of cigarettes at the rite intervals. i spent the day enjoying my voice.
then i walked into the cafe with my guitar. she was leaning over the prep station, scrubbing the thing down like i do almost every nite. she looked suddenly very lovely and i knew i was going to miss her more than i should really and my stomache clenched and then i realised it was the perfect crisp autumn air and intermittent blue skies that had got my eyes going all romantical, so i flushed the feeling with a silent chuckle. then her face scrunched up, into the look of a sorrowful apology. she couldn't do it tonite, and she was sorry. but she looked like she was ready to beg me not to punish her. martina, you didn't kill my first born or anything. you're off the hook. i told you it'd be alrite to sing later, when you get back.
but she looked so devistated, standing there, hands all soapy, a face full of lines, looking like she wished she could write my heart a check for all the blood and tears i'd spilled over this misfortune. it did suck, a lot. but i wasn't mad at her. i was just ... i just really wanted to sing with her.
she apologised over and over and then, oddly, asked me if i was still going to be in ireland when she returned. this was odd because i realised i didn't know the answer but heard myself saying, "yes. of course."
she asked how my day was, how i was. i told her i had mixed feelings, because the day was so lovely and i'd enjoyed it, but after some thinking i knew that i was going to miss her very much. her face pinched inward and her whole body kind of shut like a clasp as the small stone of appreciation or admiration or whatever struck her. then she came in for a quick hug and said, simply, "thank you."
later, at the store, buying up a small armory of comfort chocolate, i realised what amanda must have felt like, those times when she'd anticipated something going a certain way, and then it didn't. i only had a vague concept of what that felt like when i was with her. but tonite i finally understood how it actually felt ... to be let down. i guess that also means that this was something i really cared about. but how did i make it to 24 without feeling disappointment?
i guess i kind of stopped expecting or anticipating anything important from other people after the years of living with my mom's ineptitude. er, rather, knack for showing up three hours late to anything that was ever of great importance to me, and time-sensitive. i do remember the burning feeling of my shock at her tardiness. but, well, come to think of it, i guess i only started to notice this trend after about nine or ten years old. as a younger child, she'd already left me at a parade, a few airports, and occasionally simply forgot to pick me up from school.
these days, with my own knack for forgetting something as soon as i turn my back on it, i wonder if i'm developing her 'gift.' seriously, i mean i'll be making something in the kitchen, like a salad, and turn around to grab some tomatoes to put on top, and completely forget what i'm doing. this happens like forty times a day. i guess this explains why people say it looks like i'm dancing when i'm working. i'm just trying to move in a way that lets me see everything at once... because i have the memory of a fish.
post script
tracie, you're an angel.
kh, if there was a printer here, i'd be sleeping with your artwork tonite.
post post script
as per the sadness,
last nite, after i got off the phone with chelsea, i stood on our balcony, watching the sky do absolutely nothing. i was thinking about the nite after the gin&tonic in seattle. i was remembering melissa, sitting in that chair in the dark, while i did something in the kitchen. she said, if she heard about anyone else spending a nite with some gin&tonics, she wouldn't think anything of it. but when she heard that i'd hit the gin, she thot, oh, he must be so sad. and i walked over and hugged her on the chair, because she'd just snapped my heart in two, like a communion wafer. i was thinking, last nite, of how i'd give anything to have that specific hug rite there, rite then, again. i was thinking i'd give anything to have that hug again. then i thot of what that 'anything' would entail, and i considered my little pile of worldly posessions in the corner of the living room, and i realised i had nothing to offer; no proof or evidence to coroborate my sadness; nothing to trade for a hug. a few photographs and some smelly socks. after that, i started to sink lower and lower.
i knew that i'd been craving a hug for quite a while, and hadn't gotten to cry recently. i knew that part of me wanted to meet up with chelsea again just so that we could share a hug, because she's the closest thing i know to a safe and unquestionable hug, and we'd already raised the flag of our sibling-esque friendship. i also knew i was afraid to feel my sadness full on. if i slipped into some darker place, i didn't have anyone nearby -- no amanda, who'd cocooned me with love on the gin&tonic nite, or rooni, who'd done the same years prior -- who could hold me and rock me until i landed on my feet again. the nearest safe and willing arms would require scaring my new friend, but even then, i already tried her on the phone, where she sang the now-familiar song of "i'm sorry... not tonite. tomorrow."
so i bottomed out, a bit. and i guess i can chalk it all up, with a *sniff*, to growing pains.