ok. today i actually got out of the house and did something! this no-school-right-now is killing me. i went to yet another roger waters concert. i think this will be the last one i go to. not because it’s not pleasant but because it was basically the same thing as the last one. lovely, lovely pink floyd music. the flying pig was yet again amusing. i really needed to be on drugs to see it because of the special effects but enjoyed myself anyway.
i went to las vegas for a funeral. it was rather sad because it was for a baby. sort of creepy the way the kids kept poking at the body and trying to open its eyes. i felt bad for my cousin (the mother) but there was not much to be said. the odds were stacked against this baby from the start.
i was reading wicked, which was actually rather enjoyable. it really wasn’t so black and white as the wizard of oz books made it out to be. not that I really remember them but there was not so much depth of character.
i might have to move from my home. the home i’ve lived in since the age of eleven. a childish part of me wants to throw a tantrum and say i don’t want to move but, eh, it’s life. i don’t have the money to pay for the house payment and neither does my mother. it might go either way. it was definite yesterday but not so definite today.
i think i’m moving towards getting over my entanglement with could-be-love. it was a horrid few weeks with tears, unhappiness, and extreme joy. sometimes all at the same time. i just couldn’t handle feeling that way any longer, especially since it was all one-sided.
a poem i wrote recently.
unraveling seams
i hear you say you’re not
responsible, you did this
unconsciously, sewing yourself
into the spaces between my
breathing. your name on
my lips when i wake mid-afternoon,
feelings pregnant with a watchfulness,
waiting for the black topped heel to grind
into my bent spine.
i’d burned all the roots of my connections,
watching the plumes of smoke
like pyres smoldering with resentment.
yours came back, i watched them
grow, wrapping around my bent wrists.
the stitching of yourself to me,
your name, the one you used to go by,
etched into every thought, like moss
growing on the ideas sent out on
an assembly line throughout
the night, your brown hands the strangling
force on the lever.
i got out of my self-made womb to pick up
the silent phone and wonder at the dial tone.
you’d never left me alone this long,
cutting off contact like a doctor would
an umbilical cord.
dial, pause, dial, hang up.
are you feeling all right? wondering at unraveling
seams,
the remnants of an unrealized obsession,
your bent back over the machine,
taking apart the unconscious verb that held
us like butterfly wings pinned to cork.
