September 28, 2008
What do you do when there is nothing in your body.
I don’t feel like writing. My face tingles because I haven’t slept in ages. I think, though, that when I do sleep, it’s briefly and with interesting visions. I found a man last night under me. He laughed because I didn’t even know that he was smitten long before we spoke. Well, how could I, he was hiding somewhere behind my occipital lobe. I liked the fact that I still have no idea who he is.
But desire, desire. Perhaps I will do something about language. See, in my dreams I speak but it’s not in a way you’d understand. It’s like this:
Signs. Body gesture. Poetry. Color.
But that’s not what I want to write about.
Every one has an ego that follows them around like a shadow. No one gives a shit how good your words looked on the page.
I stop myself from jumping out the window. I thought, but this is the only way to drown out that shadow, that desire. What else can I do with my time? Other than…
God Damn it. I can’t even write about how I feel. You don’t understand. It’s like having a stroke and being unable to form words. My mouth runs with sand each time I talk or write now-a-days.
There’s this part of my forehead that goes numb sometimes. It’s like some strange man pressing his palm there, saying “And God anointed you keeper of signs. Angels have blessed the night with your eyes”
But then again, every sensation in my body must come from somewhere. If not a man, then a chain of chemical reactions.
So, my forehead goes numb. I think about busting my head open on a rock after climbing down from a water tower. The tumbling world in my hands.
No. That’s not true. And nothing is worth anything if I don’t tell the truth.
Why do you think I’m boring? God Damn It.
I had to create chaos when I was younger to match how I felt. I feel like that again, now. Not about creating chaos, but how it feels to want to create it.
I was looking at a lamppost and I thought about jumping. I swear. Sometimes I don’t understand why any of us are still here at all. Because if I wrote “I don’t want to exist” here, it would be dramatic. I would hate myself for writing something like that.
And that’s why I can’t write. Because being beautiful doesn’t count. The font gets smaller and smaller until I can’t see a God Damn thing. I can’t even feel anything but numb men standing on my forehead. So, I avoid the truth. I say “oh, hi, lovely day for a run.” And the truth says “right, right…must be going” and I sigh with relief because he didn’t ask me to dinner. I wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation,. This is how it would go.
Truth: You never come home before 9 anymore
Me: I am busy. I can’t seem to get anything written. I need extra time.
Truth: But, why don’t we cook together anymore? I bought three zucchinis last week just to watch them rot in the fridge. I even thought about taking a trip this year, somewhere in the mountains, you know, because you said you loved it.
Me: I should be happy.
Truth: Of course, of course…you have a headache, don’t you?
Me: I typed over you. It took three hours to complete one sentence. I didn’t even break for lunch, that’s how fucked I am.
I have a headache, so this is quite difficult. I had one of those days where all I want to do is sink into some patch of grass.
Here’s what I said after climbing for an hour seven years ago:
Location: Upper Rose, Miles: 12, Animals: snake, raven, lizard
Today we woke up early and hiked 4 miles up Lamordor Mountain. I was weak because I didn’t eat enough, but I made it.. Hopefully my appetite will kick in.
Hiked 8 miles, no sign of drinkable water…finally had to resort to stagnant horse pond. Fires are not coming along.
Then, of course, I slip into something more like “this-is-going-to-pass-don’t-think-about-killing-yourself” mode while driving down the highway,
But who can control the knob on that sucker?
God Damn It. Being beautiful doesn’t count. Language is blind.