Oh, but I AM such a pretty disaster.

I have made so many wrong decisions, I can't even pinpoint the things I've done right. Everything is coming around, and while I was flying high a few days ago- hell, a few hours ago, this rollercoaster I'm stuck riding swung me down again back to the bottom so quickly I'm left with nothing but a whirr of half remembered words, nausea, and a headache that makes me tear so badly I can barely see the glow of the computer screen.

Arrests, death, cancer, suicide. Families falling apart. Nobody to turn to.

Is this what being an adult brings?

The people closest to me are suffering and there is nothing I can do. I can cry to myself, curled up in my bed, but what good does it do? When all I have are my pretty words, what do I do when I don't know what to say, how to make it better? I can't make it better. I can't do anything.

I'm sorry.

I'm so, so sorry.



I need to go far, far away. It won't solve anything, I know it won't, but I can't be here anymore. I can't stand to see you all in so much pain. I can't stand to feel so useless.

Bits and Bobbles.

It’s the dark I want for myself, all for myself, but there is so much I want that I just can’t have. And why I do these things, I don’t know. Not to feel, not to be numb. Not to break, but to feel broken, perhaps.

So I stand in the dark, with this cigarette between trembling white fingers, their red nails matching the colour of my cheeks, a blush that rises from the cold of this winter night.

It’s nights like these, with the snow falling on this suburban wasteland, the streetlight illuminating the stop sign and the four way street, that makes one feel so much like a caged animal. I am trapped, harnessed, and I could free myself if I wasn’t so terrified by what would happen.

What could happen?

My hands are shaking, my heart is breaking, but not for you. No, not for you. Not the way you are now. But the way you will be when I hurt you so. I will hurt you, even if you don’t know it now.

And I want so desperately to be saved from this madness, this fear, this cold. But I put myself there, and I keep myself here now on this late winter’s night. I put myself here, but I won’t let it go, even as the edge slips away with this nicotine fix.

Even as I retreat to bed, my body quivering, aching with exhaustion, I hold it close like a bird with a broken wing- hobbling along, singing a shattered song.

Oh, how I long to fly.

_

Outside this cheap, dingy motel window I can see, shining across the street, a neon sign declaring ‘Shrine of the Infant Jesus’ in colours that could save your soul if only you had one. I’m sure I sold mine long ago, cashed it in for a night in a room just like this, for some cheap liquor and a few hours of being somebody new.

And just like then, this sign was like the guiding star, with three women huddled under it, wearing clothing so thin you could see the little bits of dignity trying to hold on and failing and falling down into the dark, stomped down by the shined shoes of the business man who had his hand on the slightest of the three’s waist. Even from here, I can see the way her skin crawls beneath his.

I wonder what kind of gifts they were bringing to the baby Jesus tonight.

Eventually, I pulled back from the window, falling onto the bed. The t.v. went on and on in the background, as it had been doing, flickering lights against my closed eyelids like a dream machine. No sound. I hate the sound of televisions, though with the thudding of the bed against the wall in the room beside mine, it almost seemed worth it to suffer a night of trashy cable shows with people who have even less dignity than the three wise women across the road.

I was craving a cigarette. I was craving sleep. The clock flashed 2:45. 2:45. 2:45. 2:46. 2:46. 2:46...

_

So, there he was, perched on his couch and smoking his joint easy as can be. Like nothing had changed between us. Like nothing had even happened. But that’s just the way he was, you know? So at ease, no matter the situation. As long as he was smoking, anyways. I’ve never seen him lose his cool when he was smoking, even if it was just the Lucky Strikes he usually had. I clear my throat. It takes him a minute to turn, but he does, and fixes me with those doe eyes. “You know,” I start, my voice faltering slightly. “They say you’re abusing substances now.” There’s a soft noise, something between a snort and a laugh. “Honey,” He said, stretching out onto his back, one long leg dangling over the edge, “Substances and me have a funny kind of relationship. To say I’m abusing them.. well, that implies something bad. Me and substance? We’re like Van Morrison and his brown eyed girl. We’re Sonny and Cher. Do wah diddy diddy dum, you know? The thing is, substance and I have a sort of, you know, S and M relationship. Substance wants to be used, abused. But it’s not abuse. Not the way you’re talkin’.”

We make small talk for a while, subject dropped, and it’s not until later, when I’m doing the piles of dishes in his sink and he’s perched on the counter when you bring it up again. “Honey,” he says, and I know that tone of voice. That soft, sad tone that he’d use in his favourite songs and when interviews got too personal. “Someway or another, I abused everything in my life.” At this point, I’m shaking my head, covered in suds to the elbows. “That’s not true.” I said. “That’s not true.” I repeated. “There’s me. You never abused me.” And it’s his turn to give a tiny shake of his head, curls brushing across those cheeks. “Yes, I did. Ten years from now, if you’re around, you’ll hate me for it. You’ll look back on me and you’ll see it and you’ll hate me. And if I’m still around, I’ll understand.”

Like I said, that was the last time I saw him. Ten years ago, almost to the day. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why he never returned my calls. I don’t know why he wrote the letter to me. I just..I just don’t know, okay? God. I don’t know. He left, get it? Ten years ago. That day. He just left and he never came back and, fuck, would it kill you to give me a box of tissues? He left and I don’t know why he killed himself and I don’t know why he wrote the letter to me and I hate him, I fucking hate him, and I don’t know, god, I don’t know. I just don’t know anything. Can I just.. can I just go back to work ?

-


In actually blogging about myself news, I am completely obsessing over Watchmen at the moment. Well, for the past..since December. But it had gotten a lot worse in the past few weeks.

I don't particularly mind, but I have an unhealthy love for Rorschach that is daring to pass my unhealthy love of the Joker. I am a comic book loser destined for abusive relationships.

So it goes.

Things have happened, of course, such as nights spend running through pouring rain to see a roller derby, lies to our parents, a man dressed up in blood and gore, oh so many black cigarettes, lady salvia, southern comfort, and a ride in the back of an SUV that left me numb and calm and sleepy, laying without my seatbelt off across the street while the others chatted amongst themselves, the lights from the bridges whizzing over my head like little comets all in a row. Lady salvia, if it was not some impostor, was not good to us that night, but we ended with a note of camaraderie that spun out into the night and turned slightly sour the next day.

The kitchen is being remodeled, with the walls a rich plum and the cupboards freshly white. They've been moved up, so it is even more difficult to reach bowls and plates and cups. I can barely get to the second shelf without needing a chair. The lower half of the walls have been replaced from their plasticy white predecessor to wooden strips that remind me of a fence with all the posts very close together. Altogether, it is pleasant, but I eagerly await the day when I can begin cooking in there once more, or at least find myself making a good cup of tea.

I have filled my life with music and books, the most recent of each category being Bob Dylan and On the Road. On the Road is everyhting I have ever wanted to put into words. It is what I long to do with my life. To write and travel and go, just go. Hitching and taking buses when I can, working odd jobs, staying amongst people who understand my wanderlust and addiction to prose. I fear there are too many who are too afraid of this world to even try anymore. I fear I am too afraid to try.

But someday, I know it's true- someday they will ask about me, and someone will be able to say, "That bird has flown."

Someday, I really do hope I will be grand enough to have Beatle's lyrics quoted on my behalf.

What a glorious way to be.