The fever pitch is that I keep thinking people have died in the night, when they finally reach sleep as the sun rises. After the coke, I walk home myself and I’m a hyena finding soft songs to fall asleep to at low volume, room for five discs in the blue light of the room. Body darting up, down with my eyes as they scan the music rack, a framework--nails and slots holding sounds. When I wake, I use what’s left of the milk in two cups of tea, the first with two bags in one cup, stronger and more bitter than the second. Last night at the convenience store’s counter and till, I pulled one carrot shaped chocolate from the display after the other, used the green hook at the chocolate’s end to hang each in succession on the open collar of Jaxon’s shirt. “You want all these things,” I proclaimed. Maybe Graeme was right; maybe I was just trying to be funny. Nothing in me wanted chocolate. The symbolism in my life running rampant. Before going to dance last night, I found a giant, old mirror propped in the mailroom of my building’s lobby, reflective surface against the wall. With strained arms, I lifted it up two flights of stairs, a mirror the size of my body. Well, here’s a mirror, a mirror the size of your fucking body. It can't be anything but some sort of found curse, what a coincidence. I don’t know where to hang it. I placed it in front of the television, a mirror covering a screen. It really extends the room.
Went to Vancouver on Wednesday to see the Animal Collective, stayed the night. Visited my brain-twin Mariko above the staple shop, went for indian food, drank my face off, bought a hot pink hoodie. Amazing show, fucking amazing. And, hey: I'm actually pretty sad right now, gut-sad. I don't know. It's all sad, sad, sad, you guys. Yeah, uh-huh. I'm disturbed with everything. Not weeping so much as shaking. I have all these feelings and I'm not sure what they are, what in pity's fuck they're supposed To Be, but things are leaving me pretty fucking sad. Kind of let down, staircases and spiderwebs in corners--set me down there. This day will be filled with prose. It's time to write.
Posted by caroline at March 3, 2006 3:36 PM