Saturday 2 January 2010
I am nervous. The heart goes in and out the veins, the heart thaws me numb. I have the dog panting at my side, the guitarmusic panting in rhythm, my own breath beating, the blood beating. I have been watching too much show, but today, but yesterday was my last day alone. Jon is back, invisible but with traces; the rabbit is gone, the kitchen is clean. And he is going to return from Arizona. I have to pick him up at the airport at 10:30 pm. I am about to have an attack. My fingers can’t find the letters, I can’t find a way to be. I do not want to see him and I feel certain of that, but then I do not want to see anyone at all in my house. I want my own little place, which has no one. I love the dog & cat. But I would rather give them up for my aloneness. I cried without tears, it was raining so I don’t know if it’s true, on the walk from the bar in between friends & acquaintances & coworkers; we left the bar on new years and I wondered, is new years over yet. And I could only think no, I don’t want to keep up like this, I don’t want to go anymore, I don’t want to deal with anything. Like being a human. I don’t want to look at him and listen to how much he missed me because I missed him, yes, on new years when we’re having a party it would have been nice to have him. I missed Kari but was mad, annoyed at her not being there; but who can I tell this to, I am no writer, after reading writing makes less sense, why do I think I could. If my only method of escape is this? how? I can’t write, I can’t put the letters together, nothing is honest, even, save for automatic spell checker. If I am to escape, just constantly for myself. From myself. I just need a break from being me. From the internet distractions, the sounds, my visions haven’t been. My tears haven’t flowed, my breath hasn’t come in gasps, I am not of passion anymore, and he will see this when he arrives. I want to trick myself, to say well now that he’s here I will be so happy! Finally the emptiness isn’t! But when he comes, I will have to be here, too. I don’t think there’s any way to live here. I want to be alone. Without roommates. If I really do go to college one day, in new york like I think, well I’ll have to be damned prepared. Also, I will be ready to be around others. I’ll have to be. So alone in new york. So alone but never far enough. Here the expanses can be great… and still so lonely. I liked the big dark house, empty but for us. I liked not thinking about anyone coming home, or complaining inside about my lackings. I like not thinking about anyone. But I hate not thinking. I numbed myself around, and am, just to avoid the true honest thoughts. I don’t miss Adán, he is a distraction from the real empty pain I feel when I’m alone, the pain which leads me to search frantically for something real to devour, and I am numb and searchless now. I can’t see anything. I am blinded bored.
8:42
It is restless. The struggle over I over it. My mouth is dry as can be, there are songs coming out (songs coming out of me) and the programmed static is like rain on a tin, and the things which jar and strangle. F pyramids. F hillary.
I was struggling okay all these things I have to articulate, and do I hear sounds of voices. Ah, the bright lights. I am panicking, learning forcing to force by means of love. The soundtrack of the night playing, of course, the important role. The progression of moment through music. Of feeling and the tinkle in the lobe of a basedrum.
I suddenly relaxed. After hanging up all my favorite dresses (duresses) aloud saying, “I must throw all these away!” suddenly so jovial! Ah, the mere trash! I have to stop watching that trash, any trash. My trash, my treasure. Why does my heart explode my body? The theories, I see!
The height of the night, the eggs of sweet little salmon
passed around to us on loose baguettes. I used to know
the finnish word for baguette. If only.
Reluctant relaxants. Cigarette in the yard.
Unpaired socks are called loose ends. For right now
they sit on the feathered nest made for all of us. I
have never laid there.
hearts and bones……..hearts and bones………hearts and bones
The timing will tell a story if remembered. This is about the arc of a love affair. I haven’t a story to tell. My life, as I already described, is a numb skull.
But the dog is perfect
so the fleas too, are perfect.
“Why won’t you love me for who I am where I am”
this is a story! It is true, I dare it!
If gayle could only have married paul simon
would she then be called gayle simon?
They would have looked lovely
in pictures together.
Then to be called gayle marie, of course.
No, I do not think it’s the time to try to write a poem about my mother. For she isn’t really my mother, except maybe once, or for a time, but then only because I felt like mother is this faraway, unobtainable being, who can’t care for you or protect you but who wields absolute power. Is there a better phrase. Absolute, without a doubt, oh, doubtless. Incontrovertible control. Yew
She was my mom, of course. Molly’s mom. This is a replication of the cabin. I could try for an upper upper situation.
The soft faraway look of the dog, eyes semiclosed, gazing panting gently, and the pink earlymorning at far rockaway some hog july summer relate in an instant, stirring a spark up. But I was so desperate for those occurrences. Something in me has since died. And I am wont to bring it back.
Alas, at this fair hour I anxiously await the welcoming home of my beloved. I am aching inside, tiny dagger-stuck innards. The whistle of a train!
