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Nov. 21st, 2000 12:48 pmOh yes. I've gotten myself into trouble now. Sitting here staring at the screen, not sure where to go or what to do. Every moment is a dread of going to the doctor's office in the morning to decide my fate. Damn it. How did I ever get to this?
I've been having nightmares, horrific nightmares, the kind that wake with screams and tears in a cold bed. It's the stress. The first happened in my office, with various people wandering in and out. On the television news, the broadcaster was intoning sonorous words about a missing child. I began to open the mail, and there was a package, cold like ice. I wondered why it was frozen. Unwrapping it, I noticed the butcher paper inside was stained with blood. Inside were the dismembered, almost pureed cold remains of the missing child. I began to stand up and scream.... as Keith said, "I guess we know where that one came from."
The second dream was a vicious Beowulf and Grendel in my forgotten middle school. I hate those dreams, running from some impossible enormous monster. Last night's dream was about my grandfather's death. I was in charge of arranging the burial. I remember them putting his body in the casket at the cemetary, and I wouldn't let go of his coffin. I kept screaming until I woke myself up.
Now is not the time for Freud. I'm too tired and sad and frightened right now. I have an idea of what all these dreams may mean, but no matter...
My voice hangs in the air... I have my headphones turned up loud, and if I was alone I might let the sound come out of my mouth. A scream, a wail, a cry, that choking awful sound. This fear drives me on, doesn't let me stop running even to breathe. If I didn't have to be half naked in front of a nurse tomorrow I would go home and take a razor to my skin, let the blood out in fine lines like wire, all tension and grace and skill. Like driving on the freeway and taking speed. That illusion of forward movement. None of it seems real, and it certainly doesn't now.
What a strange world it is, he said to me. One person sits reading Dostoevsky and Nabokov, one person worries about an unexpected pregnancy, and one person wraps a bandana around his head, preparing to go out in the street and fight for an ideal.
The feeling that I should just get up and take off, just run. Just keep running, run until I can't. Get in the car and start driving. I could be halfway across the state before morning. I could be gone.
"... I could just pretend that you love me the night would lose all sense of fear but why do I need you to love me when you can't hold what I hold dear oh god could it be the weather oh god why I am here if love isn't forever and it's not the weather..."
I am alone. All this is going to be done on my own. For the first time I realize how old I am and how far I still have to go and just how small those years are in the palm of my hand. Oh God. I am so scared right now.
Tried not to cry around either Keith or Hana, but the stray ones fell into lap, or the back of my hand while we talked. I think it might have frightened him. I don't want to be so grown up right now, I don't want to have to be the adult. Damn it. Damn this fragile body.
The words stick, hanging unsteady on my fingers. I'm in no mood to really write, to make this record. I feel some obligation but.. but what are you going to do?
I keep straining for his voice, for a message, for some kind of comfort. God I need you.
"... maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen well all the world is all that I am the black of the blackest ocean and that tear in your hand..."
I've been having nightmares, horrific nightmares, the kind that wake with screams and tears in a cold bed. It's the stress. The first happened in my office, with various people wandering in and out. On the television news, the broadcaster was intoning sonorous words about a missing child. I began to open the mail, and there was a package, cold like ice. I wondered why it was frozen. Unwrapping it, I noticed the butcher paper inside was stained with blood. Inside were the dismembered, almost pureed cold remains of the missing child. I began to stand up and scream.... as Keith said, "I guess we know where that one came from."
The second dream was a vicious Beowulf and Grendel in my forgotten middle school. I hate those dreams, running from some impossible enormous monster. Last night's dream was about my grandfather's death. I was in charge of arranging the burial. I remember them putting his body in the casket at the cemetary, and I wouldn't let go of his coffin. I kept screaming until I woke myself up.
Now is not the time for Freud. I'm too tired and sad and frightened right now. I have an idea of what all these dreams may mean, but no matter...
My voice hangs in the air... I have my headphones turned up loud, and if I was alone I might let the sound come out of my mouth. A scream, a wail, a cry, that choking awful sound. This fear drives me on, doesn't let me stop running even to breathe. If I didn't have to be half naked in front of a nurse tomorrow I would go home and take a razor to my skin, let the blood out in fine lines like wire, all tension and grace and skill. Like driving on the freeway and taking speed. That illusion of forward movement. None of it seems real, and it certainly doesn't now.
What a strange world it is, he said to me. One person sits reading Dostoevsky and Nabokov, one person worries about an unexpected pregnancy, and one person wraps a bandana around his head, preparing to go out in the street and fight for an ideal.
The feeling that I should just get up and take off, just run. Just keep running, run until I can't. Get in the car and start driving. I could be halfway across the state before morning. I could be gone.
"... I could just pretend that you love me the night would lose all sense of fear but why do I need you to love me when you can't hold what I hold dear oh god could it be the weather oh god why I am here if love isn't forever and it's not the weather..."
I am alone. All this is going to be done on my own. For the first time I realize how old I am and how far I still have to go and just how small those years are in the palm of my hand. Oh God. I am so scared right now.
Tried not to cry around either Keith or Hana, but the stray ones fell into lap, or the back of my hand while we talked. I think it might have frightened him. I don't want to be so grown up right now, I don't want to have to be the adult. Damn it. Damn this fragile body.
The words stick, hanging unsteady on my fingers. I'm in no mood to really write, to make this record. I feel some obligation but.. but what are you going to do?
I keep straining for his voice, for a message, for some kind of comfort. God I need you.
"... maybe she's just pieces of me you've never seen well all the world is all that I am the black of the blackest ocean and that tear in your hand..."