It’s cold and there are wolves after me (1/23/10)

this is perhaps the best thing i’ve ever written. the most honest, anyway. i have changed nothing, melodrama and all.

 

 

The moon is behaving strangely tonight. Is is large, low slung and yellowed, a half shut jaundiced cat eye, glowing through the haze of fog to cast strange shadows through the barren trees. I have been doing nothing, all day. I sorted Nana’s books, I took vicodin, I daydreamed about seeing Colin again and seducing him, I flipped through some Shakespeare, some Poe. The moon seems to wink at me as the clouds roll on, and I wonder when I’ll see it. I don’t know what it is, but I know it when I see it. Where is my Jacob Black with this moon? Where are the things that go bump in the night? Galen tosses and turns as she watches Harry Potter, there is complete silence minus the scratch scratch of my pen and the occasional howl of the heater pumping fake air, the well head recycling the water, and Galen’s sighs as she shifts her weight. I talked to Tony today. He is going to hang out with Olivia and they will fall in love and I’ll have to just stand there and watch it and take it.

 

Abbey came over last night and we talked. We talked in the way we have since we were little, the words just changed a little.

Isn’t it funny, no matter how in love you are – or think you are – that you can still see straight through them {men}?

Yes, and this is our mystery.

And I love it. But why do we continue to love them?

I don’t know. More often than not these days I go for my own gender.

As do I! 

We clinked our glasses of whiskey in celebration of sex, sexuality, mystery, and most of all, our enduring tie, that’s kept us together through years and miles, the blood of the covenant and the water of the womb, the sting of labor, our mother’s friendship and promise. To being an Aries girl, yes, to being a girl!

Depending on how I move, I can smell the stale smell of my ashtray, but I am non plussed. I’ve been teetering on such emotional extremes that I cannot bring myself to give a shit about anything moderate at all. Screaming, howling in pain? Sure! Incest? Whatever! Smelling a dirty ashtray? Ehhh. I have to get up and pee, but it seems so unimportant, in this scheme. I am lackluster and neon all at the same time, depending on the angle. The candles on my altar have reached the heads of the saints, their illuminated halos dancing off the strange objects in the room. I feel suspended, in something odd. There is nothing I can say or do for my Uncle, besides let him sleep, in his own hazy dazy morphine induced state. Sure, take four tranquilizers when the box says one. Chew morphine like M&Ms. Anything, my one and only. The moon; the moon is gone from my window. Where is the merciful god where were promised? Where is my light of heaven? How can I presume to know these things? I’m passed out drunk in the backseat of your car.

 

I enjoy lighting my joints with matches. A habit I picked up from Alexander that I plan on keeping. Some quiet piano lullaby plays and I feel soothed. Our once clean room is covered with boxes of books which I wish would just vanish right now. They loom in my head like tombstones for all the ideas and thoughts I could have had, should have had. But I’ve written more in this vicodin vomit than I have in weeks. Maybe even since Portland*. I honestly thought Oncle had died this evening, he hasn’t slept this long in months. What does my father think of this? My lies? Can he see them? Can he see me? I hope I look angelic when I sleep. Galen offered to dump the ashtray, since she had to go outside to pee. Because we are living in the woods, and have nothing but a chamber pot by the door we must take out into the snow every morning, and she’s offering to do the night shift. I turn, my stomach and I, and I’m falling.

 

 

 

  • in this entry, “since Portland” means since November, since I had been on the road since my father died over the thanksgiving hols. 
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