foe I have superstitions about writing. If I can't think of a title for these missives, I worry. I wander around until something comes to me. My e-mail subjects are the same way.
I used to write numbers for the subject... something like "67834", but one has to be different. One can't do the same thing over and over.
I do wear red lipstick incessantly. Perhaps it will become I trait of mine. I feel that the red really brings out the yellow of my teeth.
It's summer isn't it? It's the year 2005 isn't it? I am thirty-three this year. Oh yes, I told you that already. One has to be different. One has to be special.
I have already told you that I am simultaneously conflicted, terrified, blase, hopeful.
I have told you that I watch teevee to feel less alone.
I have told you that I expect everything from people and then sparingly give myself. I have told you that I miss the barbeques and the summer and the bugs and the pond and the comaraderie of the fellow sufferers.
Is there anything I haven't told you?
It hasn't happened yet.
When I noticed that I had gotten an email from you, I froze in fear and anticipation. I cursed my latest psychiatrist who hadn't refilled my anxiety medication but had tried to up the dead-calm inducing drug.
I took the dead-calm inducing drug. I opened a corona (doesn't it always look like piss) and put a lime in it.
I smoked my cigarettes and wondered if this would be the last day I smoked them.
I steeled myself and opened your email. I thought: this is it. It will contain a summons to cease. You will ask me to stop writing you and that I was delusional and insane and pitiable. I was almost relieved at the prospect. It would be an end, and I could nurse my wounds and feel less guilty about hoping you would put your sulfur on the sandpaper.
You're not going to get me through this are you?
I see myself in mirrors. I read a book today that told me what a con artist I am - that I constantly go from reflection to reflection hoping that the spark will be there that will bounce back to illuminate me.
This is true. So much is true.
But is it bad? Aren't I a mirror to others? Isn't everyone? Don't you let this live so that I can be a savings account for you?
When he looks at me and hopes. It is a laugh. It is a laugh riot. It is the most droll point.
Life is ridiculous. We're all lonely - even a guru - even the greatest writers of our time. All of it is about connection. Sex is about connection. Death is about connection. (I've always wondered why it was called 'the little death).
I visualize it. Surely. I want IT to happen.
Somehow I think that the ball is in my court. My court is full of balls. My crotch is full of gloves.
I realize I bore you with my talk of pity and inertia.
I did do something today. I washed the leaves of the gardenia with soapy water. I washed clothes. I bought supplies. I visualized.
Perhaps it will be different the next time.
The next time.
not this time, but the one after it.
come on out I used to listen to "you and whose army" by radiohead a good bit.
I would listen to the lyric "you think you drive me crazy", and I thought I didn't. I just thought I did.
erasing zero I just pulled a painting out of my ass.