All the turkey dwindling in a freezer container seven feet away. When I moved in here my parents were here and it is apropos that they should be here this weekend – my last. My fingers are scarred, thumb pads rent from the mesh. Today was a long day. The walls have told all their stories and I am itching, this day after thanksgiving, for new palates on which to plaster new stories – clean walls, my walls. I am running naked and wet through the rain tonight; the family quietly sleeps in sudden slumber. The fun that was had will be had again – but not quite in the same way – if not now, then very soon. I ate the jello cranberries: my favorite. I sucked my thumb. I played Ken and Barbie and Ken. She can’t stand up. She’s dancing to stay upright. Kicked the high-heels into the pool. Goodnight this place; it is slowly dismantling. Goodnight sweet prince; he’s dead. Goodnight Candler Park, or Lake Claire, or whatever you...
In this dream you walk in here while I am entranced and grab me and my wonderful face (so wonderful!). Bob loves us and says we should toss it all: keep renting. It could always be you. It could. Living room when we were in love. Monkey love. O M G! There’s a ghost… godammit a ghost.. for fuck’s sake… S.C. will remain… all the dirties full on. They will watch; of course they...
For a little over three years, spanning from August of 2005 to August 2008, I spent one hour a week – sometimes Thursday afternoons, sometimes Tuesdays, and for a brief period on Wednesdays – sitting in an office with dim lighting and half-closed blinds trying to figure out what was wrong with me. When I started going to these sessions, I was in an awful place in my life in which my then live-in girlfriend had moved out (ostensibly in an effort to save the relationship), who then subsequently left the relationship for good a few weeks later. I had spent the better part of my previous 10 years nightly carrying out a love affair with alcohol, and whereas I had tempered these wicked ways a bit in the previous couple of years, my anger and frustration with myself would still boil over from time to time – whether drunk or sober. During those three years of weekly meetings I would come to realize that I was in, and had likely been in, a deep depression that extended back into my teen years. The man that I talked to (and I mean “to”, like when a pitcher throws a ball to the catcher, because our sessions were 95% one-way) in those sessions was Stephen O’Hagan. I would come in most of the time thinking I had nothing to say, pretending that everything was okay, only to leave an hour later realizing my tongue was tired, and most times feeling much more levity than when I entered, all at the expense of tear-stained cheeks. Steve didn’t speak much, but when...
Every sound in the universes tonight. All such cacophony; guitars breaking down. I’ve been with the little men, the little man you schooled with – the little violin playing men – and I am the abhorred drunk, or drunken. At least I am alive, and I am. New house. New life. New neighborhood. Leave this place behind. Good memory. Forget the bad. I guess it’s finally time for me to give you Thama’s clock...
I was with you in 2004. Just realized that tonight. Wish I could share all of this tonight with you as well. Working at CNN. Leaving at a certain point. Crying black woman hugging me. I hope the whole world will be different because of this. I would have loved to hug and screamed and danced with you tonight. I guess I did in some small...
Recent Comments