6.28.2004
That's how I feel today, limp. My hair is limp, my skin, my eyes. I think about the people. The tears I've cried on chests and laps.
What does it mean? To find someone, to lose them?
7:08 PM
6.22.2004
I have a blister the size of a melted easter egg on the tender fleshy part of my foot. And yes, it's been popped but it STILL hurts. Hopeless. So if you see me walking pigeon toed, go ahead. Laugh and point. I'd do it to you.
4:53 PM
6.21.2004
the starling fell
to the asphalt from the sky
in line
with the quick scream.
there is no impasse
no boulder smash
no crunch.
she nose-dived with Bethlehem wings
a soft POW
to mingle with the curb.
And there she lay gasping, the tiny blood
like a tear
dripped from her beak.
the starling died next to our grocery bags.
and we always knew
sunglasses hide funeral
eyes.
12:05 PM
6.17.2004
And then Kelly Rippa sat on the bike and she's like SHort.And she said, "Do you think this bike is too big for a little girl like me?" and like her legs could barely reach and her bum was totally sticking out and then Jesse James said. "Nah, it's perfect." really slowly and you could tell he totally wanted to bang her.
10:56 AM
6.16.2004
Woke up, walked from the Armdale Rotary on Quinpool, where I'm housesitting, to South St, to meet a friend, walked to the North End to meet someone else, changed my mind again, wrote boss an email about a proposition I hope she'll like, we walked back towards the Rotary and went to Chocolate Lake, peed in the woods, laid down, swam, laid down, swam, listened to a teenage girl complain about her frizzy hair and the sand on her clothes (you SAT in the sand, what did you think would happen),left, walked downtown, tried on clothes, decided they were over priced and cheap, left, ran into Meaghan and co at the Argyle, chatted about flowers in beer bottles, bought my third pair of sunglasses this summer cause the rest are lost, bought a new smelling deodorant and bobby pins, walked to the waterfront, bought Chocolate mud and vanilla swiss almond ice cream in a waffle cone, walked to Stage 9, drank two coronas, ate mussels, gave the rest of the mussels away, walked back to the North End, thought I should really get my bike from Bloomfield, ran into Dash, Kieran and Kenova, played 21 points in the Commons in fishnet stockings.
11:49 PM
Did you know the medical experts call us survivors? The people who have experienced tramatic violent loss.
The worst is yet to come. When the chemicals in your body wear off and it sinks in...again? In four months. Fuck. I'm sorry. I feel cold right now.
Distorted grief and post-tramatic stress. oh, yes. That's it.
"easy startling.
flashback
nighmares
recurrent thoughts of the death
flattened emotional response
numbing."
Again. Again?
I don't know if I can.
I wasn't even finished the first time.
1:32 AM
6.14.2004
Ok. I need help. I think I may have royally fucked myself over. But I’ve royally fucked myself over on so many occasions I can’t even tell anymore. I don’t know if I made the right choice or not. Plan B is Plan B for a fucking reason and I’m never good with Plan B. Holy Jesus. I don’t even know if Plan A is even what I want. I DIDN’T EVEN REALLY PLAN IT OUT! Ted looked at me a few weeks ago, while I was reading the paper or something, and said, “Why are you going to England?” and I started laughing like a crazy woman. Because it’s a valid question. I don’t know. And I know that not knowing is the worst plan to have.
Most people would have taken the job. I feel sick to my stomach. I make impulse decisions and then I change my mind and then I change my mind again. This would be fine if I was say 22, but I’M OLD. I’m afraid I’m going to end up on the streets. What if I never settle down? What if I’m one of those? And I wander around for the REST OF MY LIFE? My friends are having babies and getting engaged and buying sofas and I feel like puking. What if I go to London and I totally fuck it up? What if I don’t even get a visa? Oh my god, that would be Plan F. My friend asked me about my gut feeling. GUT FEELING?! What the fuck? I don’t even know. It has failed me so many times in the past year. I don’t trust myself anymore. Ok. I’m freaking out.
11:34 AM
6.12.2004
I’m quite sure the spider came from Mexico. Because it came crawling out of a gray plastic bag. The plastic bag, gray, previously held some purple seedless grapes. Which are delicious. I should know because I’ve eaten a lot. Although the bag probably held these grapes for a short time; really, no more than 10 minutes, about the time it takes to drive down Glendale, and the grapes clearly say. ‘Product of Mexico.’
So, the spider definitely came from Mexico because it’s blond. And it crawled across the frozen vegetable lasagna and I wondered what to do. I watched its light yellow bubble launder across the letter ‘M’ and I wondered if its feet were cold. I wondered about killing it.
None of this would have happened if my mother hadn’t gone for a nap.
4:50 PM
I took a bath today and I tore lilac blossoms from a branch and put them in the water.
I dunked the flowers, watched them spiral to the surface and then anchor on my smooth brown skin.
I studied lilacs closely.
Blue
Green
Pink
Yellow
Violet and
White
Lilac is never just lilac.
4:38 PM
6.10.2004
I watched the sunrise. I couldn't sleep. Pink and gold. I cannot tell if I make the right choices.
I have to confess. I'm a fucking mess.
What is success? Do I even care?
The other day I walked in circles on the street. Looking for something. I went one way and changed my mind, I went the other way and changed my mind. I cried a little and hid behind my coffee.
I look in other people to patch up my wounds.
But it's people who made them. It's not enough. It's never enough.
Am I fucking it up on purpose? Did I lie? Is it really like I say it is? Did I lie?
Fuck. Fuck.
I said I need to make it hard. I said I want to struggle so that something comes out of it. My friend says great minds think like that. That was nice of him. But what if I'm not great. What if I fall?
There are two kinds of people.
What if the hurt is too much and I don't stand up, like some sort of warrior from the blood and the muck?
What if I make everything a hell, walking in my stupid circles?
What if I destroy everything that is sweet?
Even hope. Even love.
11:16 AM
6.08.2004
I like kittens. Yup. I like 'em. Well I even chased kittens all over Sam's barn every summer in Margaree. Sam was my grandfather's friend and he had one leg and lived in the house on the hill---alone. He fed the wild cats who lived on his property. He yelled 'Here kitty, kittykittykitty!!' When they would come running from the cellars and the woods and the barn, I would have just 5 minutes and they would let you pat them. I even once painted some of my favorite stray cats when I nine years old. I mixed the brown, black, red and white house paints from the coal shed, used a piece of plywood and did their portraits. From memory. Yup. They were lined up, shoulders to ear tips, smiling at us. I gave it to Sam for his birthday and he hung up it up in his hallway.
Yup. I like kittens. I have two cats. Aiofe (pronounced E-Fah)and Dali. They were abandonned on some church steps when they were three weeks old. We had to bottle feed them for 4 more weeks.
I had an irrational fear that one of them would die suddenly and I would find a tiny body stiff under the washing machine like that dead half cat with the missing eyes and the missing bum and back part whose face was frozen into a terrifying yowl that I saw on the highway in Cape Breton when I was like an innocent kid just picking some fucking raspberries.
Whatever, you can't say I don't love kittens. I went to Bloomfield today and played with the kittens. The calico is quite cool. Affectionate and courageous. And the black and gray striped one is precious because he is so afraid.
But the two white ones with the gray blobs on them are kind of homely. They look like they're retarded. They'll totally get picked last.
8:04 PM
6.01.2004
When you woke up today, you woke up wringing your wrists. Trying to wring something out, to flick it off, on your walls or the cats or anywhere but on you.
If I could have my way I would lug full dressers, all of it; the mirror, the drawers of perfumed clothes and phone number notes, the candles on top, cases missing music. All of it, the dust, just as it sits in my room. Set it up by the curb, next to the compost, arrange the pink scarf where the wood curls, fluff it up a little, the coffee mug from yesterday, the photo album, ‘East of Eden’ borrowed from a friend, the bag of pretzels. Set it up nice.
I would sit on the steps and wait. I might even have a cigarette. I’d wait for the sound. The hiss when it stops, the clang and the screech. I won’t even move my foot. I’d wait for the men, with their gloves stained of oil and muck. Well, what have they seen thrown out? This can’t be too shocking. Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before, sir? The bedroom set. The bedroom life. Our garbage becomes their garbage. It would take at least two of them, or three—would the driver have to get out?--- one on either side to heft it in, and down the monster mouth would come, to mulch it up, to Glad Bag it.
1:36 PM
It was his melodic voice, the way it spoke low and near the back of his neck. He chose his words carefully. And I was hypnotized. Watching him swish around, bare feet, gray sweatpants in Dal’s basement. Like gravity was a plaything, to be kicked and flung and eaten. It was how he put his hands on my hips, suddenly, hotly and moved them into position.
You could not be late for rehearsal. You could not be late. Even if you had diabetes, even if you had a twisted half arm, even if you were handsome or fucking your boyfriend. It was unacceptable. Not because of any temper. He commanded an instant loyalty. That summer we had rehearsal five times a week. Sometimes it would last five hours.
“Memory is in the muscle,” said the Polish theatre director. He would teach us a gentle method that made us sweat.
I remember smelling lilacs and standing under the streetlight in a lilac dress. I had long black hair and I remember I was always looking for something, in my purse, in the grass, in the stall, so I smoked and he watched me. He made me feel so full that even screaming was quiet. So full, that I began to tremble and watch my step. It was his melodic voice, the way it rumbled near the back of his neck.
At the beginning he gave each of us five tasks. To go into the world and find five movements and mimic them. These movements were hammered into perfection. And eventually into concentrated habit. The movements became words, the words became characters. My character’s name was Claire. Claire, who lost touch with her best friend. Claire, who worked on her carrots. Claire, who grew cold and silent and remembers a kiss. Claire and the pile of shit.
I know why.
It was the way he said to me---You have all the power—outside of the Wardroom, late, and the door shutting. It was the way I could feel this power in the dust of the hall, how I could see it then, in my hand, how it rolled like a steel, shiny ball. And I knew I could not contain it, this power, that filled me to bloating. And I knew it would come out. From inside me. That it would dribble from the corner of my mouth.
And so I did what I had to do.
2:09 AM
That's how I feel today, limp. My hair is limp, my skin, my eyes. I think about the people. The tears I've cried on chests and laps.
What does it mean? To find someone, to lose them?
7:08 PM
6.22.2004
I have a blister the size of a melted easter egg on the tender fleshy part of my foot. And yes, it's been popped but it STILL hurts. Hopeless. So if you see me walking pigeon toed, go ahead. Laugh and point. I'd do it to you.
4:53 PM
6.21.2004
the starling fell
to the asphalt from the sky
in line
with the quick scream.
there is no impasse
no boulder smash
no crunch.
she nose-dived with Bethlehem wings
a soft POW
to mingle with the curb.
And there she lay gasping, the tiny blood
like a tear
dripped from her beak.
the starling died next to our grocery bags.
and we always knew
sunglasses hide funeral
eyes.
12:05 PM
6.17.2004
And then Kelly Rippa sat on the bike and she's like SHort.And she said, "Do you think this bike is too big for a little girl like me?" and like her legs could barely reach and her bum was totally sticking out and then Jesse James said. "Nah, it's perfect." really slowly and you could tell he totally wanted to bang her.
10:56 AM
6.16.2004
Woke up, walked from the Armdale Rotary on Quinpool, where I'm housesitting, to South St, to meet a friend, walked to the North End to meet someone else, changed my mind again, wrote boss an email about a proposition I hope she'll like, we walked back towards the Rotary and went to Chocolate Lake, peed in the woods, laid down, swam, laid down, swam, listened to a teenage girl complain about her frizzy hair and the sand on her clothes (you SAT in the sand, what did you think would happen),left, walked downtown, tried on clothes, decided they were over priced and cheap, left, ran into Meaghan and co at the Argyle, chatted about flowers in beer bottles, bought my third pair of sunglasses this summer cause the rest are lost, bought a new smelling deodorant and bobby pins, walked to the waterfront, bought Chocolate mud and vanilla swiss almond ice cream in a waffle cone, walked to Stage 9, drank two coronas, ate mussels, gave the rest of the mussels away, walked back to the North End, thought I should really get my bike from Bloomfield, ran into Dash, Kieran and Kenova, played 21 points in the Commons in fishnet stockings.
11:49 PM
Did you know the medical experts call us survivors? The people who have experienced tramatic violent loss.
The worst is yet to come. When the chemicals in your body wear off and it sinks in...again? In four months. Fuck. I'm sorry. I feel cold right now.
Distorted grief and post-tramatic stress. oh, yes. That's it.
"easy startling.
flashback
nighmares
recurrent thoughts of the death
flattened emotional response
numbing."
Again. Again?
I don't know if I can.
I wasn't even finished the first time.
1:32 AM
6.14.2004
Ok. I need help. I think I may have royally fucked myself over. But I’ve royally fucked myself over on so many occasions I can’t even tell anymore. I don’t know if I made the right choice or not. Plan B is Plan B for a fucking reason and I’m never good with Plan B. Holy Jesus. I don’t even know if Plan A is even what I want. I DIDN’T EVEN REALLY PLAN IT OUT! Ted looked at me a few weeks ago, while I was reading the paper or something, and said, “Why are you going to England?” and I started laughing like a crazy woman. Because it’s a valid question. I don’t know. And I know that not knowing is the worst plan to have.
Most people would have taken the job. I feel sick to my stomach. I make impulse decisions and then I change my mind and then I change my mind again. This would be fine if I was say 22, but I’M OLD. I’m afraid I’m going to end up on the streets. What if I never settle down? What if I’m one of those? And I wander around for the REST OF MY LIFE? My friends are having babies and getting engaged and buying sofas and I feel like puking. What if I go to London and I totally fuck it up? What if I don’t even get a visa? Oh my god, that would be Plan F. My friend asked me about my gut feeling. GUT FEELING?! What the fuck? I don’t even know. It has failed me so many times in the past year. I don’t trust myself anymore. Ok. I’m freaking out.
11:34 AM
6.12.2004
I’m quite sure the spider came from Mexico. Because it came crawling out of a gray plastic bag. The plastic bag, gray, previously held some purple seedless grapes. Which are delicious. I should know because I’ve eaten a lot. Although the bag probably held these grapes for a short time; really, no more than 10 minutes, about the time it takes to drive down Glendale, and the grapes clearly say. ‘Product of Mexico.’
So, the spider definitely came from Mexico because it’s blond. And it crawled across the frozen vegetable lasagna and I wondered what to do. I watched its light yellow bubble launder across the letter ‘M’ and I wondered if its feet were cold. I wondered about killing it.
None of this would have happened if my mother hadn’t gone for a nap.
4:50 PM
I took a bath today and I tore lilac blossoms from a branch and put them in the water.
I dunked the flowers, watched them spiral to the surface and then anchor on my smooth brown skin.
I studied lilacs closely.
Blue
Green
Pink
Yellow
Violet and
White
Lilac is never just lilac.
4:38 PM
6.10.2004
I watched the sunrise. I couldn't sleep. Pink and gold. I cannot tell if I make the right choices.
I have to confess. I'm a fucking mess.
What is success? Do I even care?
The other day I walked in circles on the street. Looking for something. I went one way and changed my mind, I went the other way and changed my mind. I cried a little and hid behind my coffee.
I look in other people to patch up my wounds.
But it's people who made them. It's not enough. It's never enough.
Am I fucking it up on purpose? Did I lie? Is it really like I say it is? Did I lie?
Fuck. Fuck.
I said I need to make it hard. I said I want to struggle so that something comes out of it. My friend says great minds think like that. That was nice of him. But what if I'm not great. What if I fall?
There are two kinds of people.
What if the hurt is too much and I don't stand up, like some sort of warrior from the blood and the muck?
What if I make everything a hell, walking in my stupid circles?
What if I destroy everything that is sweet?
Even hope. Even love.
11:16 AM
6.08.2004
I like kittens. Yup. I like 'em. Well I even chased kittens all over Sam's barn every summer in Margaree. Sam was my grandfather's friend and he had one leg and lived in the house on the hill---alone. He fed the wild cats who lived on his property. He yelled 'Here kitty, kittykittykitty!!' When they would come running from the cellars and the woods and the barn, I would have just 5 minutes and they would let you pat them. I even once painted some of my favorite stray cats when I nine years old. I mixed the brown, black, red and white house paints from the coal shed, used a piece of plywood and did their portraits. From memory. Yup. They were lined up, shoulders to ear tips, smiling at us. I gave it to Sam for his birthday and he hung up it up in his hallway.
Yup. I like kittens. I have two cats. Aiofe (pronounced E-Fah)and Dali. They were abandonned on some church steps when they were three weeks old. We had to bottle feed them for 4 more weeks.
I had an irrational fear that one of them would die suddenly and I would find a tiny body stiff under the washing machine like that dead half cat with the missing eyes and the missing bum and back part whose face was frozen into a terrifying yowl that I saw on the highway in Cape Breton when I was like an innocent kid just picking some fucking raspberries.
Whatever, you can't say I don't love kittens. I went to Bloomfield today and played with the kittens. The calico is quite cool. Affectionate and courageous. And the black and gray striped one is precious because he is so afraid.
But the two white ones with the gray blobs on them are kind of homely. They look like they're retarded. They'll totally get picked last.
8:04 PM
6.01.2004
When you woke up today, you woke up wringing your wrists. Trying to wring something out, to flick it off, on your walls or the cats or anywhere but on you.
If I could have my way I would lug full dressers, all of it; the mirror, the drawers of perfumed clothes and phone number notes, the candles on top, cases missing music. All of it, the dust, just as it sits in my room. Set it up by the curb, next to the compost, arrange the pink scarf where the wood curls, fluff it up a little, the coffee mug from yesterday, the photo album, ‘East of Eden’ borrowed from a friend, the bag of pretzels. Set it up nice.
I would sit on the steps and wait. I might even have a cigarette. I’d wait for the sound. The hiss when it stops, the clang and the screech. I won’t even move my foot. I’d wait for the men, with their gloves stained of oil and muck. Well, what have they seen thrown out? This can’t be too shocking. Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before, sir? The bedroom set. The bedroom life. Our garbage becomes their garbage. It would take at least two of them, or three—would the driver have to get out?--- one on either side to heft it in, and down the monster mouth would come, to mulch it up, to Glad Bag it.
1:36 PM
It was his melodic voice, the way it spoke low and near the back of his neck. He chose his words carefully. And I was hypnotized. Watching him swish around, bare feet, gray sweatpants in Dal’s basement. Like gravity was a plaything, to be kicked and flung and eaten. It was how he put his hands on my hips, suddenly, hotly and moved them into position.
You could not be late for rehearsal. You could not be late. Even if you had diabetes, even if you had a twisted half arm, even if you were handsome or fucking your boyfriend. It was unacceptable. Not because of any temper. He commanded an instant loyalty. That summer we had rehearsal five times a week. Sometimes it would last five hours.
“Memory is in the muscle,” said the Polish theatre director. He would teach us a gentle method that made us sweat.
I remember smelling lilacs and standing under the streetlight in a lilac dress. I had long black hair and I remember I was always looking for something, in my purse, in the grass, in the stall, so I smoked and he watched me. He made me feel so full that even screaming was quiet. So full, that I began to tremble and watch my step. It was his melodic voice, the way it rumbled near the back of his neck.
At the beginning he gave each of us five tasks. To go into the world and find five movements and mimic them. These movements were hammered into perfection. And eventually into concentrated habit. The movements became words, the words became characters. My character’s name was Claire. Claire, who lost touch with her best friend. Claire, who worked on her carrots. Claire, who grew cold and silent and remembers a kiss. Claire and the pile of shit.
I know why.
It was the way he said to me---You have all the power—outside of the Wardroom, late, and the door shutting. It was the way I could feel this power in the dust of the hall, how I could see it then, in my hand, how it rolled like a steel, shiny ball. And I knew I could not contain it, this power, that filled me to bloating. And I knew it would come out. From inside me. That it would dribble from the corner of my mouth.
And so I did what I had to do.
2:09 AM
