19 October 2013

I woke at 2 pm today, having stayed up till 7 am, and was greeted by my housemates in the kitchen as I put the kettle on. They said they were going to a small party to celebrate the opening of Ailee’s new workspace. Ailee, who lives upstairs, and who I like a great deal, had invited me weeks ago, but the thought had slipped from my brain. And so I told my friends I would need twenty or so minutes to mold myself into something presentable and less frightening.

I washed my face and hair and combed my cat. I drank two cups of tea and lay in the bath and absorbed all the vitamin E I could. And then I biked four blocks north to a warehouse near McCune’s place and ate a handful of carrots and drank a lot of tea that I maybe only half-realized was filled with alcohol.

My housemates and I sat outside under a cloudless sky and made jokes and drank the dark stuff until we could barely move. I was mostly functioning on an empty stomach and hated myself more than usual, so I was badly affected. When I admitted that I was so far gone I might not be able to get home, everyone seemed surprised.

“How much have you had?” said the blur that lives across the hall.

“Three, maybe four cups,” I said. I was laughing and tearing up. “But it could have been more.”

In the main hall I ate half a baguette and fumbled through a few sentences with Ailee’s friends, who clearly had no idea what to make of the drooling mess in front of them.

Minutes later, I think, we were biking back to Castle DOOMSDAY and the sun was already setting below the crumbling vacant warehouses. When I got home I knew I would say hello to my cat and give him a few treats and hope that was enough to convince him to lie on my chest and fall asleep.

19 October 2013

In the end we were cruel and terrible to one another because we liked the way it altered our chemicals

18 October 2013

Sometimes people get those letter banners that say “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” and string them over the fireplace or something

I’m getting one tomorrow to hang over my bedroom door that says “PLEASE DON’T TOUCH ME”

17 October 2013

“I’m outside and I’m surrounded by people. My god, look at all these things! Is this what’s it’s usually like?”

15 October 2013

I have mostly forgotten my home

Even when I try I cannot picture it

13 October 2013

♫ Oh, Virginia, Virginia

I can never return

You ruined me, you bitch

Or perhaps I ruined myself

And was ruined by others

Inside of you

Oh, Virginia

I liked you, baby girl

Them lips of yours, so sweet

Baby, yeah 

12 October 2013

If you owe someone money and you’re a huge asshole and they’re a huge asshole as well, you have my permission to use the following text I have prepared for just the occasion. I myself will never use it, so have at it:

Here is the money I owe you. To achieve optimal results with your new wealth, I suggest withdrawing every bit of it in singles to dump all over your bed. Roll around in the money for a little while. See how it makes you feel. Once you are finished, write a one-page paper detailing your experiences and then feed it to a garbage disposal.

12 October 2013

We have been sitting at this godforsaken desk all damn day, staring at the blank white spaces and wondering when little squiggly lines will fall from heaven (or bubble up from hell) and choke this terrible emptiness. We have drunk all the liquor in the place, have had the kettle steaming for nearly seven hours, have let all the old tales race through our terrible putrefied brain so many times we may soon vomit until there is nothing left but the skeletal framework. . . .

This is here more for us than it is for you, but you may take something away from it if the hatches of your brain are open and ready to receive the world. And they should be. If they are not, then what in god’s name are you doing here, you beast?

Anyway, a little Hemingway to throw into the mind’s fire:

The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer’s radar and all great writers have had it.

Now, we put hands to keys—silent ones, damn them; no clacking at all—and perhaps a story will emerge from this godless pollution.

Mother and Father, forgive us.

And to the Oakland Police Department, we have just five words for you: It was not an accident.

12 October 2013

No, no—it won’t do to go out. I will stay here in this sunken room and shield it from the sun.

Earlier in the butterfly room I swallowed a capsule with cranberry juice and sat around and waited for the light show. She had said, “It will take some time.” And I asked her if I could be off to get to my hole and she said, “I think so.” I rocketed to 34th in a car full of people who would soon be strangers.

Had I stopped working? I think I had. There were only weeks left until I left that place for-ever.

Rushing through that slanted house, watching it become more slanted, I put on a purple t-shirt and welcomed the strangeness. There were faces in the back yard and I wanted nothing to do with them. Instead I wanted only to sink to the bottom of the tank and stay where it was cold and blue.

Oh, the electricity!

Outside a woman is pushing a baby carriage. A band is practicing several blocks away. I open the door and when I breathe I feel heat fill the emptiness. I shut the door and in seconds I am empty again.

Something dashes by and I scoop it up. It is a creature I have seen before. In my arms it is grey and squirming. Big green insect eyes growing and shrinking like little balloons. My son! I hardly recognized you through the rot in my head.

Don’t come in here. For god’s sake, don’t come in here. I pay for this damn room and I want those doors shut as long as I am near them.

12 October 2013

“I had waited a long time for her—or rather I was somewhere and she was somewhere else, and from time to time I remembered her and wondered if she liked me. She had told me something was coming in the mail and I knew that when it got to me I might find a roadmap for the future, if any, and however vague. There would be clues, maybe, if I was lucky, veiled behind a show of gratitude. Or perhaps it would be an outright admission of love. But more than likely it would be more strange indifference. And really it was all the same; whatever answers I would find in her words would not bring comfort to me either way. It was all just vapor that, when I was feeling rotten, I liked to believe was more.”