Fucking Untitled, maybe.
On Tuesday I realized that I was sick. I hadn't noticed, really, until Laura came and I realized that I was sniffing every few seconds. I felt young, nervy, quipping; I acted oddly, felt ape-like, distant, ugly. The night before I'd felt so beautiful, but in the morning I was filled with headaches and muscle aches and purple eyes and such. And Laura was so sweet, forgiving me for everything, brushing hair from my eyes and making me feel like her mother and her little girl at the same time. And we wore these beautiful vintage dresses, relics of an age when people had pride, maybe, when they waltzed and made brownies in their ovens and watched TV in black and white, which is so much more beautiful. I'm sorry if I'm not very coherent; I can't tell how this will read in the morning. I'm tired and I can't see and my head hurts and I want to see Harry and I want to sleep, but I just can't. Sleep that knits the ravelled sleeve of cares has abandoned me temporarily, and I'm alone and painfully conscious and awake.
And Laura was so tender, sweet little waist and big eyes, and it was crystalline and I wanted to say everything and then be silent. Instead I zipped the back of a dress, admired a shoe, ate pizza, sifted through old receipts and ticket stubs in search of a metrocard. And suddenly I'm home, watching sad, lilting movies and then she's gone and I fall exhausted into bed, guilty because I didn't take out my contacts, because I'm not sure how I've been acting.
And the next morning I wake up early and Mom is bugging me about something, but I'm not sure what, and I agree to something, and I'm dizzy and can't really walk and I wonder dimly what I've said I'll do today. And then I remember that I don't have any plans, and so I take a shower and peer in on the Blogger world and wonder what to write about. I don't write anything. Oona calls and I'm glad because I've missed her, and I hope that I'm not as sick as I was the day before, even though I still can't really breathe through my nose.
I get lost on the way over and show up late, and when I walk in I realize that I'm in the house I've always wanted to live in, the cozy abode where anything goes, where zeppelins and red velour set the rules and children paint things and aren't scolded and light pours in and there's sweet coffee and clothes everywhere and Oona is radiant, golden, a little nervous, maybe, and we read things, and I read her poems and can't think of what to say about them because I love them and I'm not sure why. I read them again and the voice emerges, wistful and sad and maniacally happy, savory and sweet, youthful and old, and I don't even know where to begin. We bullshit a paper and go outside to enjoy the sun, talk about life, careers, love, the weather.
Suddenly Oona gets a text and it's very serious, and Amanda and Daphne and Peter are there and It's so very grim, and we all hug each other and I realize that I've missed them even though we're not really as close as we might be. And we end up in twos and threes, light conversations like the warm air, and then it's Peter and I behind everyone else and he tells me the whole terrible story and I've never seen him so grim, never heard his voice so low or seen his eyes so dull and sharp. And I feel terrible about the whole thing, but there's only a name in my head, no face, so it's Ok, somehow. There are more people, and an avacado milkshake, and lots of chocolate cake and I'm nervous again and feel ugly and have nothing to say. I leave because I imagine that my mother's waiting for me.
When I get home, though, she's not there, and I'm sitting on my bed watching Renata and Harper play some computer game or other, and I'm shaking because I think I remember his face, I think I remember having a conversation once, when I was lonely, and he was kind and very smart and very angry and wistful and sad, and suddenly I'm bawling, shaking and crying and hating myself because I have no right to cry. Because I didn't know him, I wasn't there, he didn't know who I was or why we made him a monster or that he wouldn't wake up, and I imagine his last moments, imagine someone opening the door, imagine his parents and his family and everyone stoned and terrified and I wish I'd been there to stop it, to open the door first, to hold him and keep him safe, and I'm everybody's mother and my babies are gone and it's terrible.
Then my own mother comes home, and she didn't remember, or didn't care, and she's three hours late and she's mad at me for not doing something, filling out some papers or other, and my head hurts and I can't really see and we're yelling at each other across the room and I keep thinking I'm going to collapse, and we're getting farther and farther away from each other and my throat hurts and I fall into a chair and cry, and she's still mad and thinks I'm heartless and vile and I feel heartless and vile and soon I've told her everything and I wish I hadn't. We're so different now. We don't know each other any more, don't understand where we're coming from any more, and I'm not the little girl who wanted Barbies and pink dresses and she's not the one who held me and gave me black Italian clothes and talked about spring. And then my dad calls, and he knows too, and I wonder if I told him or if she did. It's all a blur. My head hurts so much. Suddenly the house is empty and I sit there, not feeling anything, and then I'm crying all over again, and everyone's back again and I leave to buy ice cream. The ice cream tastes shitty. I try to laugh at Simpsons episodes and I feel bad about making everyone depressed but mostly I feel bad about telling them, about giving someone's life away so I won't seem stupid or vile, about how stupid and vile I really am. And Elena calls and I remember that I haven't called her in two weeks, even though she's called me lots of times, and I want to hold her but she's far away and I'm crying again and she understands, and it's the same thing that happened two weeks ago but it's the other way around, and I think how nice it is that we've got someone to turn to and who we know will always, always listen, always have a shoulder and a sleeve and a sofa and a phone and a pair of shoes or the necklace that will save us when we're drowning at some wedding or other.
I go to bed but I can't sleep. I want Harry to be there, the lithe, thin chest to lean against, the strong arms and tender face to shield me while I cry again, while my sister sleeps and I try to remember the order that everything happened in. And then I'm sobbing into the pillow and talking, even, and thinking that it could have been anyone, it could have happened to Harry or Peter or anyone I care about, anyone at all. Faces swim by: my mom, Renata, people I've never talked to, Oona, Laura, anyone, my father even. And I hate myself for burdening people with my sorrow, which doesn't even belong to me, and I can't admit that anyone can die but I know it and I hate it and it's been at least two hours now and I can't feel my fingers and my throat aches and I'm writing in my head and my head hurts and I have to get up and type or I'll die, and I want to call every number in my phone, and then some, to say that I love them and then hang up, but it's too late. Zack called earlier; "I'm fine," I said. "Are you sure?" "Mmm." "You don't sound fine." Damn. I'm not so opaque; I'm not as deceptive as I'd hoped. "Really. I'm fine." "Positive?" "Mmm." "You don't sound fine, but whatever you say..." and I'm glad he, at least, knows me a little, can tell when I'm not myself, and I hope he's not hurt that I lied to him. Don't you see, Zack? I've told too many people. I can't walk around causing suffering, imposing my pain on other people, imposing someone else's pain on other people. I'm sorry if I got this wrong, if everything happened the other way around. I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I didn't know you at all, I'm sorry I judged you and that I'm crying for you because you're almost an idea now, not even a person, and I'm so very afraid and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry it's so late and I'm so tired of everything and I can't even write a better entry and I'm a terrible person and I'm sorry.
I'm still lying in bed, trying to amass enough energy, enough hope, to get up and write about it so I can sleep and not think, and things start blurring together, and I'm not sure if I'm crying over my mom or Oona's poems or Laura's waist or Elena's number, tacked to my wall even though I know it by heart, a grim reminder of how shitty I've been. And everything's avacado milkshakes and thrift shops and wracking tears and I realize that I'm still saying something. I listen for a moment and hear "I'm fine. I love you. How was your trip?"
And Laura was so tender, sweet little waist and big eyes, and it was crystalline and I wanted to say everything and then be silent. Instead I zipped the back of a dress, admired a shoe, ate pizza, sifted through old receipts and ticket stubs in search of a metrocard. And suddenly I'm home, watching sad, lilting movies and then she's gone and I fall exhausted into bed, guilty because I didn't take out my contacts, because I'm not sure how I've been acting.
And the next morning I wake up early and Mom is bugging me about something, but I'm not sure what, and I agree to something, and I'm dizzy and can't really walk and I wonder dimly what I've said I'll do today. And then I remember that I don't have any plans, and so I take a shower and peer in on the Blogger world and wonder what to write about. I don't write anything. Oona calls and I'm glad because I've missed her, and I hope that I'm not as sick as I was the day before, even though I still can't really breathe through my nose.
I get lost on the way over and show up late, and when I walk in I realize that I'm in the house I've always wanted to live in, the cozy abode where anything goes, where zeppelins and red velour set the rules and children paint things and aren't scolded and light pours in and there's sweet coffee and clothes everywhere and Oona is radiant, golden, a little nervous, maybe, and we read things, and I read her poems and can't think of what to say about them because I love them and I'm not sure why. I read them again and the voice emerges, wistful and sad and maniacally happy, savory and sweet, youthful and old, and I don't even know where to begin. We bullshit a paper and go outside to enjoy the sun, talk about life, careers, love, the weather.
Suddenly Oona gets a text and it's very serious, and Amanda and Daphne and Peter are there and It's so very grim, and we all hug each other and I realize that I've missed them even though we're not really as close as we might be. And we end up in twos and threes, light conversations like the warm air, and then it's Peter and I behind everyone else and he tells me the whole terrible story and I've never seen him so grim, never heard his voice so low or seen his eyes so dull and sharp. And I feel terrible about the whole thing, but there's only a name in my head, no face, so it's Ok, somehow. There are more people, and an avacado milkshake, and lots of chocolate cake and I'm nervous again and feel ugly and have nothing to say. I leave because I imagine that my mother's waiting for me.
When I get home, though, she's not there, and I'm sitting on my bed watching Renata and Harper play some computer game or other, and I'm shaking because I think I remember his face, I think I remember having a conversation once, when I was lonely, and he was kind and very smart and very angry and wistful and sad, and suddenly I'm bawling, shaking and crying and hating myself because I have no right to cry. Because I didn't know him, I wasn't there, he didn't know who I was or why we made him a monster or that he wouldn't wake up, and I imagine his last moments, imagine someone opening the door, imagine his parents and his family and everyone stoned and terrified and I wish I'd been there to stop it, to open the door first, to hold him and keep him safe, and I'm everybody's mother and my babies are gone and it's terrible.
Then my own mother comes home, and she didn't remember, or didn't care, and she's three hours late and she's mad at me for not doing something, filling out some papers or other, and my head hurts and I can't really see and we're yelling at each other across the room and I keep thinking I'm going to collapse, and we're getting farther and farther away from each other and my throat hurts and I fall into a chair and cry, and she's still mad and thinks I'm heartless and vile and I feel heartless and vile and soon I've told her everything and I wish I hadn't. We're so different now. We don't know each other any more, don't understand where we're coming from any more, and I'm not the little girl who wanted Barbies and pink dresses and she's not the one who held me and gave me black Italian clothes and talked about spring. And then my dad calls, and he knows too, and I wonder if I told him or if she did. It's all a blur. My head hurts so much. Suddenly the house is empty and I sit there, not feeling anything, and then I'm crying all over again, and everyone's back again and I leave to buy ice cream. The ice cream tastes shitty. I try to laugh at Simpsons episodes and I feel bad about making everyone depressed but mostly I feel bad about telling them, about giving someone's life away so I won't seem stupid or vile, about how stupid and vile I really am. And Elena calls and I remember that I haven't called her in two weeks, even though she's called me lots of times, and I want to hold her but she's far away and I'm crying again and she understands, and it's the same thing that happened two weeks ago but it's the other way around, and I think how nice it is that we've got someone to turn to and who we know will always, always listen, always have a shoulder and a sleeve and a sofa and a phone and a pair of shoes or the necklace that will save us when we're drowning at some wedding or other.
I go to bed but I can't sleep. I want Harry to be there, the lithe, thin chest to lean against, the strong arms and tender face to shield me while I cry again, while my sister sleeps and I try to remember the order that everything happened in. And then I'm sobbing into the pillow and talking, even, and thinking that it could have been anyone, it could have happened to Harry or Peter or anyone I care about, anyone at all. Faces swim by: my mom, Renata, people I've never talked to, Oona, Laura, anyone, my father even. And I hate myself for burdening people with my sorrow, which doesn't even belong to me, and I can't admit that anyone can die but I know it and I hate it and it's been at least two hours now and I can't feel my fingers and my throat aches and I'm writing in my head and my head hurts and I have to get up and type or I'll die, and I want to call every number in my phone, and then some, to say that I love them and then hang up, but it's too late. Zack called earlier; "I'm fine," I said. "Are you sure?" "Mmm." "You don't sound fine." Damn. I'm not so opaque; I'm not as deceptive as I'd hoped. "Really. I'm fine." "Positive?" "Mmm." "You don't sound fine, but whatever you say..." and I'm glad he, at least, knows me a little, can tell when I'm not myself, and I hope he's not hurt that I lied to him. Don't you see, Zack? I've told too many people. I can't walk around causing suffering, imposing my pain on other people, imposing someone else's pain on other people. I'm sorry if I got this wrong, if everything happened the other way around. I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I didn't know you at all, I'm sorry I judged you and that I'm crying for you because you're almost an idea now, not even a person, and I'm so very afraid and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry it's so late and I'm so tired of everything and I can't even write a better entry and I'm a terrible person and I'm sorry.
I'm still lying in bed, trying to amass enough energy, enough hope, to get up and write about it so I can sleep and not think, and things start blurring together, and I'm not sure if I'm crying over my mom or Oona's poems or Laura's waist or Elena's number, tacked to my wall even though I know it by heart, a grim reminder of how shitty I've been. And everything's avacado milkshakes and thrift shops and wracking tears and I realize that I'm still saying something. I listen for a moment and hear "I'm fine. I love you. How was your trip?"
posted by VVM at 3:32 AM
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