I dreampt about ordering a vanilla soft serve cone in Wisconsin. My change came back to me with gravel in it. Then the guy pulled away without giving me my cone. I ran after his truck yelling, "No cone! No cone!" When I woke up this morning (more)I thought about the dream. Was it about about past girlfriends who were not what they seemed? No cone...
My new/used Neil Young record has a terrible scratch but only through one song, "Heart of Gold." It keeps repeating, "I've been to Hollywood." Is that a sign?
The sandwich board in front of the AM/PM store on my way home from work has a new message on it everyday. Sometimes jokes, almost always a joke. A bad joke. Out of the blue, on Friday, the sign offered the words, "Here Comes the Sun," my favorite iconic Beatles song. THAT had to mean something. Things are going to get better, right? Right.
A raccoon is nesting in our tree. I spent a full two minutes one day watching her furred chest rise and fall as she slept. According to my housemates, who have more time to watch her, she spends hours grooming herself. Is someone coming? Will we have two raccoons in the tree? Well, obviously, he already came. Is the raccoon a sign?
Obviously, I am desperate for meaning. I want the tablets, the commandments from Mt. Sinai, to fall on my front porch, but gently as to not disturb the raccoon. Go do this, don't do that. The tablets could just spell it out for me. Explain the dreamscape Soft Serve man, the Neil Young record with a skip, the hibernating raccoon, the woman who came for tea yesterday who I have not mentioned. All the mysteries.
The weird thing is,
my coffee tastes like soap. Sweet.
Apples and peaches.
Mangoes and dish soap.
Tastes like I've been bad. Like I've been cussing.
Like a floral punishment.
(But I keep on sipping. Haven't reached my stop yet, so, you know, got(more)ta give myself something to do with these
idle hands and all).
And it tastes like how my kitchen smells
after I've washed my plates, my bowls--
(scraping mold out into the trash,
collected from being left in the fridge too long).
Mild, pickled banana pepper jars that I keep,
and use like glasses.
(and with every day, I forget a little bit more
of what exactly the difference is
between upcycling and hording.
Boring myself, tho, over the details.
And its not like I'll get rid of them anyways.
So, you know,
what is the difference?)
The weird thing is,
how long it took me torrent Paul Simon's
Seeing how it keeps me
And you know,
I haven't been so depressed lately.
(That is, of course, if you don't count the night
I drank that bottle of Riesling all by myself.
Then showed my tits
to torsos on Omegle.
Called them faggots while they mashed
their fists into their pelvises.
I gave them kisses while screaming
the Patriarchy they push into my throat tastes like soap.
for something I haven't done yet.
Bad girls and consequences.
Incidents and accidents).
In the morning, all that's left is a wet spot.
And even tho I'm not sure if it's wine or mine.
I lap it all up anyways.
The weird thing is,
such a lovely sight it is,
your babygirl--in her bra and panties--
dancing to Afro-pop in a kitchen that smells like
sweet apples and troubled nights.
Like peaches and mangoes.(less)
I'm finally home. It seems like forever since I've been above ground. After spending so much time wandering along the Styx it feels wonderful being able to stretch my legs against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean.
Hades fought me tooth and nail this time, he didn'(more)t want me to leave at all. "We'll never work things out if you keep leaving me" has become his mantra.
Working things out is the last thing on my mind these days Thellie, and the weird thing is, I don't care. Not anymore.
So much time has been wasted trying to make something of this farce of a marriage, I've just about run out of patience.
We had another argument as I was leaving, this is nothing new of course but there was something different about this one.
Where I usually find myself yelling loud enough to frighten even the Reaper himself, this time I was deadly quiet. Hades did his best to bait me but I refused to bite. He even went so far as to accuse me of taking a lover.
A year ago I would have gotten my back up at his insinuating I was unfaithful, now when I hear these words it just makes me wonder why I haven't taken a lover. I'm being hung for a crime I never committed dear friend but if the truth be known, I wish he was right.
I'm lonely Thellie. Hades does nothing to ease my loneliness, in fact he does everything he can to keep me isolated. He's been hiding all my correspondence too, I found a box full of letters addressed to me hidden away in his safe when I opened it to put away some of my jewels.
Hades has gone too far this time.
She desperately wanted to control herself, but she couldn't stop her face from beaming, and she had little awareness of her surroundings as she clipped her way down the sidewalk in silver high heels, drawing admiring glances she didn't notice but also drawing puzzled and judgmental glances, the result(more) of her strange posture--a slight wobble to her body above the waist, like a kid mimicking a whirlpool--and to many she appeared drunk, but the thought of this (had she thought of it, which in fact she hadn't) would have made her collapse in a laughing heap on the sidewalk, because while she hadn't been drunk in two years, if a person could get drunk on another person, then drunk she was, but no, drunk intimated a dull tunnel-vision aspect, while the state she was in that morning was the opposite: the entire world seemed not only magnified and sharp as steel in its precision, it seemed that the world--all the complexity and beauty of its constellations, all the chaos and order of its designs--funneled the best it had to offer directly behind her rib cage, and this in turn moved her through this morning at a formidable pace, infused every glance upon a stranger with dizzying hope regarding the efficacy of human interaction and goodwill, assaulted her with the desire to embark on a campaign of incessant creativity and altruism--ideas for a large triptych of canvases, a plan for spearheading a homeless advocacy campaign, a series of first person interviews she would start collecting and archiving--but mostly, and overwhelmingly, it seemed that the world around her was weaving its components into a finely braided tether that would lead her back, she could only hope soon, into the arms of the woman who started all of this in the first place.(less)
When I close my eyes, I see smoke rising from the cities. All this death, and at least some of it is because of me. Guilt snarls around my heart, but I do my best to push him away. He is my closest acquaintance, now, Guilt is. My friends have(more) forsaken me, repulsed by what I have done. They send letters, occasionally. But for the most part, I live alone in this house. An old man glares at me as I walk through the halls, and Guilt whispers in my ear.
He knows, Guilt does. He knows because he is what he is, and brings himself on my heart to torture me.
And always do the cities burn.
And always do the armies march.
And always does the death continue.
When my eyes were opened to my crimes, I returned to the cities, I poured all my energy and life into rebuilding them. The men and women I worked beside did not know me, did not know that I was responsible for the deaths of their brothers, fathers, husbands, sons.
And then came the King. His men swept the cities, searching for me, and they found me.
I did not hide. I welcomed what justice he would mete out. I looked forward to finally atoning for my sins.
But Guilt wrapped my heart, and as the King pardoned me, I cried out in anguish.
And now I live always in pain, always with Guilt, watched and followed, pardoned but untrustworthy.
And still the cities burn.(less)