Sunday, December 21, 2008


This is what happens when you write on meds with the flu. Excuse the grammar and content.

Today is my birthday party and I am caccooned in a sea of blankets. Having fever dreams of 19, 21,23,24, and this, this 25. Having flicks of past ‘loves’ who have slept in this bed. Retracing the ups and downs,too muches too littles and shoulds and coulds and maybes all on a little too much sudafed. I am not a pretty sick. Pale yes, gaunt yes but not Victorian frail pretty. I am messy sick. Messy with insane hair. Pink swollen eye bag tummy hurt messy sick.

My party is happening in nine minutes. I broke. I edited, five.

Before I met men. Before I ever fell in love I kept a journal. I journaled religiously about the stupid the banal the mundane not beautifully, but I was learning, and then I wrote to them. And suddenly it had a recipient an action and didn’t seem so banal. Words sent through e-mails and letters and those never mailed kept on my desktop. I guess that’s the biggest thing now. Who now? Me? I can’t even see as I read. Is it into empty? God that’s melodramatic ‘into empty’. Well you always were. Don’t use the drugs as an excuse. Still are. Practically melodramatic. Most people get silly fevers with dreams of Brett Micheals playing bingo, you, you get fucking introspection. Sheesh. Who are the words for? Are they for you? Always were? I’d have my dress on now. (the silver one that makes me resemble a rapper’s girlfriend.) Glad I didn’t buy a new one.

‘Wouldn’t it be wild if they all showed up without you’. Had it without me. All of them there. Now. Everyone I had ever loved or thought I loved, there. Everyone I sort of thought I liked.. I wouldn’t be there so it wouldn’t be awkward. The two with the same name would look quizically as they both used their left hand to both buy a scotch. The tall tall ones would stare at the other tall tall ones and discuss their albums, Butch Cassidy, and methods of not returning phone calls. The ones that mattered would assume they didn’t and the ones that didn’t would assume they did. And the in betweens might wonder ‘what if’ while watching ‘Arrested development’ and ‘Twin Peaks’ on the bar tvs or discuss the finer points of radiohead, and my recycled literary catchphrases that I pass off as novelties. (Witty things that really aren’t so). The spiritual ones in one corner, the agnostics in another, slightly OCD most likely scorpios and sags. The ones w/ allergies who didn’t last long would bond over lactose intolerance. The actors over alcohol, the writers over… alcohol. The musicians would come after their gigs. The few that became my brothers would watch it all and laugh, feeding the others beers, while a few wouldn’t even catch on to why they were there at all. And there would be no who hurt who, they’d just be people, good people.

My friends would travel in the groups they know. Maybe be repelled by the people they remind me of. The ‘Oh you have to meet!s’ (I have them all cataloged in my mind). My 4 year old best friend would know no one, possibly my parents and maybe get hit on by my overeager co-worker. My oldest girlfriends would dance, dance in a way that I’m sometimes ashamed to but do anyway. Maybe Hannah Wang, who sent me my first letter, and taught me how to curse, would be there. There would be laughter tons of laughter, and the occasional awkwardness, two of my favorite things. No one would talk of the business: plays, films,books, ideas,stories, but not business. My little sister would be shocked to find herself in a bar. While my teachers might not remember my full name. My dad would talk a few people’s ear off, not realizing they may know the story behind him, commenting on the crown molding, making bad jokes. They’d agree he meant well, he does. My mom on the other side of the bar,avoiding him, would listen, white wine In hand and just listen. Listen with that intent knowing half smile, that’s always with you but always thinking. Occasionally she’d laugh, her cheekbones swallowing her eyes. My grandfather would whistle an aria in the corner, thinking it was all too loud obtrusive. My grandmother would no longer need her hearing aid and float around supplying just made brownies and baked ziti to the masses, decked in lapis jewelry, porcelain skin. My brother silently would watch it all and pray. Maybe sitting quietly with one of afore mentioned spiritually inclined boys, and they’d have a talk that was more silent than anything else.

And I wouldn’t be a topic at all. And I’d like to be there for all of it, because that room would be more me than anything.

1 comment:

sean d said...

A lot of people have no business writing a blog. You aren't one of those.