Thursday, June 30, 2005

My jaw is killing me. It feels like I've pushed my molars up into my jawbone. I don't realize I do this until it's too late, until I am in pain. Such a stupid day. I got a haircut. I hate it. It is so stupid to hate a haircut. I cried and cried and cried. I always cry when I get my haircut. It is ridiculous to eat my kishkes out because of a haircut. Hair grows. I try and try to put it into perspective, to no avail. I feel like having a broken heart. I feel like eating my kishkes. It feels good to cry and cry and cry.

This man in the Kenton neighborhood, as I was bending over my bicycle, my ass in the air, said I must not weight 100 pounds. He had no front teeth, he was probably missing at least 4 of his front teeth, on the top. I was staring at this blankness in his mouth. I hope he didn't notice. I rode away wondering how he lost his teeth. He was young. Maybe someone punched him. It's impolite to talk about a lady's weight, isn't it? I should have told him so.

I hope something is going on in the cosmos that is making me feel this way. Things feel slanted. My dad is so lonely. My mom called me crying. My sister broke her arm. I feel shattered. Like all I want in the world is for my mom to take care of me. To nurture. To be kind and loving. That's not how it works, it hasn't worked that way for such a long time. And I'm a grown up now. I shouldn't want that, need that. But I do.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Friends seem distant, I saw the first glance of disillusionment, disrespect, falling-out in G.'s eyes today. He seemed to disapprove of my misery, of my stinginess. The way I sat crosslegged, numb and immune to all emotion.

I let that pass. Already I am crushed by debt and consciousness to a shrill echo of my past ambition. My self is the same, dumb, relaxed, looking out of the window.

My friends get business off me, they meet my friends and strike deals. I do not keep accounts. I suffer in poverty. What shall I ask of my friends? How shall I say that I can show the way but not walk with them today.

Everybody is clamouring for me today. They need me, flowering fresh and alive, throbbing with life and energy to sit with them, sing with them, dream on of the other worlds.

She says, "After this I refuse to work with you." I think, yes - you can afford to think this way. I can not. I think, yes - I carry the curse of being self-centered to my teeth. You do not.

You are a women of today, a woman of substance. You mix easily and with no discomfort. I have my mediums, I have my languages - barring these, all interactions are stress. All conversations are punishments. You can refuse to talk to me, I can not. I will have to struggle, sneak in my meanings in mirages, in odd songs, in good behavior. Strength is another thing, we learnt about at home. The strength, which comes of tolerating self-inflicted pain. The strength, which comes of suffering one's decisions.

My path of choice may lead me nowhere, it has its own shades of the schizoid, the irregular, the macabre. But then I have to be me. I have no other choice. I have to find a way of spelling ABC - and not feel embarassed of my indentations, which confuse alphabets to be numerals.

Confusing alphabets to be numerals is not much fun.