I am sitting on the damp chair (everything is damp) It is 3:41 in the morning and in the space where my car usually lives there is nothing but a half a piece of paper towel I am smoking and I am smoking and I am smoking and nothing is going to soothe this I fear The woman who comes to repossess my car at 3:24 in the morning says, “I don’t want to embarrass you” I am not embarrassed I am defeated, again.
She says, “you have your health” I snicker Do I? Do I. “You have a roof over your head” yeah and a house in foreclosure. “Just call Nissan in the morning” she says, airily. Just call. She says this as if it were actually that easy. Just call Nissan. I try to explain that it isn’t that easy. That I have widow brain and I am bipolar. At the word bipolar she perks up. “Do you need to call someone? Are you going to be okay.” wanting to absolve herself of further responsibility The answer to that is obviously no and no. No I am not going to be okay. No I am not okay. No I am not okay no I am not embarrassed but I am desperate. How am I going to get back to sleep.
i did my job today. i did my job well, today. it was non stop and busy and there were too many people and now i am . and now i am sitting barefoot on my couch too overwhelmed by everything to want any noise near me the noise inside my head, also nonstop the pain in my hip from not resting but for ten minutes, nonstop shoulders, tense, up around my ears hot tears fall, splashing my lenses i can barely breathe.
I look at this it looks like a cookie i wanna eat it I look at this and I think you might have liked it. Like really liked it. It has that stone boulder-type look that you loved you made your file folders and icons all have it It has that riveted, homemade robot-type look to it that wonky, wabi-sabi ancient technology look. something you could have unearthed on a dig or found in our backyard, sticking half-up out of the dirt. You can see my fingerprints in it, for now. You can see the literal hand of the artist. The linen cloth I use to protect both surfaces above and beneath.
I had to come forward this far. this far. Three years. I had to come forward this far to make something I truly think you would like.
I think so much that you would like it.
but why am I trying so desperately to please my dead husband?
i do not want to be alive right now i want to be not here right now i do not want anything other than to not fucking exist right now but i can’t write that and post it now because everyone will freak the fuck out so i cant post it i cant reach out i cant scream i cant tell anyone i just have to not do anything not do anything not do anything just sit with this and struggle and scream inside my own head and not do anything nothing nothing nothing
nothing. it is all i can do to sit and type and the stench of that motherfuckers cigarillo is in my fucking apartment and all i want to do is punch him in his fucking dumb face
nothing. nothing i cannot do a thing i will scream and scream and scream and not stop and i cannot stop i have to do nothing.
i know if i open my mouth i will scream and scream and not stop so i dont
nothing. my shoulders are tense and around my ears and tight this empty this noise this noise this noise this noise . there is no enjoy there is not any enjoy.
i need to smoke. i need to smoke but it does not last my plant is so thirsty she needs so much attention i cannot give her the attention the care she needs she is suffering.
i take great big gulps of air but it is not enough there is not enough air..
i am going to go smoke and maybe it will be enough if i just smoke enough
nothing is enough my brain is on fire and falling into a crevasse there is no end to the fire no bottom in sight
it is a relatively quiet evening even with the idiotic clapping of some fucking asshole for some fucking reason even with the assault of garbage music that competes with blasting television noise no yeti-footed neighbor upstairs (took his black-and-tans and split) stop with the fucking clapping for fuck’s sake already
i don’t want music i don’t want noise i want silence nothing interfering
my eyes are dry, for now core unclenched, shoulders still tight, but lower i can think about packing a bowl now try without becoming frustrated, fucking it up easy to do in general, yes but nothing is easy and if that asshole doesn’t stop clapping soon
You need to stop what you’re doing and listen to what’s linked below. A love poem to New York by Roger Cohen called “I Forgive You, New York”.
I’d had to stop listening to it when it first aired; too painful. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past fifty-two years, it’s that painful things can’t be avoided forever. I’ve learned how to lean into the pain, breathe through it, adding potsmoke as often as necessary, let it untangle, unsnarl. To understand that not everything that happens is meant to be understood. That in itself has been infuriating, frustrating, obliviating. That even though I am hurt, hurting, in pain. That even though, I can’t be sure that I will ever know why. That I can’t compel the answer. That nothing I can do, no innate power of mine is enough, no existing love and care and kindness is enough, that I have to accept that I may never know. Because even if I went against my nature, blew shit up, caused a lot of unhappiness past my own, that not even that would be a sure thing. And that so many more people would get hurt for nothing.
So I can only appeal to better natures to tell me. I can only be hopeful that better natures exist and that I have not been completely misled for so long.
And if that is the case, then I really, really need to be gentle with myself. Because learning that painful a lesson is going to take a long time to absorb.
sweet man. you dearest, sweetest man. sweet and seeing my sweetness nothing hidden, not even in the beginning because friends don’t lie Friends don’t hide things from each other. I don’t want ours to be the kind of relationship where we hide things from each other. no matter what they are. there is nothing you can tell me that I will not hear. you only have to tell me. it’s all I ever ask for.
there is so much to talk about, always. so much to share, to discuss.
it is this part that I miss the most, the talking the hashing over the intricate and meandering conversation.
I love listening to the sound of your voice, your passion obvious and enchanting as we talk about everything, and nothing
finally a spate of cooler weather of breezy weather. easy-breezy chicken francese cooler head less on fire brain, still convoluted and badly tangled, untangling. thoughts racing and tangled more, faster but less I don’t know less what? Less rage, more anger. Less fury, more sadness, and disappointment. Less fire, more ice.
There is no “what did I do to deserve this?” or “I didn’t do anything to deserve this” No. Those thoughts begin to bubble up and are stopped at the first word. Silenced. No. No. I say no. I will not begin to embody those thoughts. This has nothing to do with me. Not ever again. Nothing. No thing.
it has gone on so long now that there is no coming back. there is no balm, no quiet murmured assurance, no comforting touch that will ever, ever save me. Save you. Not from this.
I thought I knew you. I suppose I do. You know what you have lost. I see now what I have gained.
This girl. You see this girl, smiling, happy. This sweet kitty, snuggling this smiling girl.
What you don’t see. The remade bed, the just-changed sheets that have needed changing for too long. The remade bed that until five minutes prior, I was in, under the covers, chest heaving, desperate to recall the feeling of the embrace of a good man, a sweet man. The soft, welcome heaviness of the weighted blanket on my shoulder, my hip. so close to feeling the way his arm did, draped across my shoulder, holding my hand, fingers intertwined. his warmth behind me, curving into my back.
what you don’t see. tears staining my face the roughness of Mojo’s tongue on my cheeks, the delicate inquisitiveness of his nose at the corners of my eyes. knowing that the memory of the feeling would have to last until next time.
I am happy that I can remember, even though the stopgap measures, the heavy blanket, even though trying to not be lonely only makes me lonelier.
flooded. finally flooded. amnesia haze i am in an amnesia haze. username checks out. five stars. 10/10 would recommend. i know that there isnt much left in the bowl and i will have to go inside to get more. to feel better. more. right now just enjoying the evening sounds rain from the last downpour in the downspout birds settling in for the night the neighborhood quieting my brain quieting.
i should go back inside, fill the bowl. always ready.