2003-12-10
ohm?
earson:
eyeson:
thoughton:
darn it all to heck!
dinner: macaroni and cheese. i'm so sick of macaroni and cheese i could scream. yay payday tomorrow..
admissions: 5
so one day a couple of weeks ago i was asked to describe one of the doctors i work with. i said he was 'elderly.' one of his colleagues told him about it in front of me and he's been angry with me ever since. because he's not even old, and guh! of all the stupid things i've ever said, that has to be the one that gets passed on. why couldn't it have been that boldfaced lie about being 'involved' that got passed on so that indian fellow wouldn't've accosted me?
i really miss having a computer at home - being able to tweak my website and the diary would be ideal, but for now i have to sign on at work. so here i am, hiding out back with the lunchtables and the television .. wearing my burton hat, glancing occasionally at the chocolate ice cream i pilfered from the hospital kitchen for dessert. mmmm.
zoe is 2 years old. i met her father on the internet in 1999. he was married at the time .. i am, admittedly, a housewrecker. relationships with bad beginnings often have bad endings .. if i believed in karma, i would absolutely assume that karma had a hand in dividing X and i forever. but doesn't karma realize that we loved one another? oh well. the guilt would have eaten us, shat out resentment, and would have ruined the whole thing. karma knows best.
i suppose i'm mostly agitated today because zoe didn't have a nap and the sitter blames it on me. blame it on karma! i'm still paying! yay sublime divination!
[mutter.]
--
sulane sprawled on the pidgeon shit green couch and she stared at the vaulted celing and she said aloud with her foot nodding at the air: maybe the time has come to get out of this business of self-prophecy and twice-removed atonement. maybe i am not my father's faults. maybe i am worth more than 'yes.'
the studio was not wide, but long. as one faced west there was a heavy door on the north wall and a marching set of four floor-to-ceiling windows on the south. their sills were crowded with candles of many generations - sputtering, dancing, reaching, drowning - all melted atop one another and around, wax spilling timefrozen drips. the floor was a warm, glossy hardwood .. the kind with old nails, gaps between boards. the room was occupied by a stonehenge of maple easels. they were five feet tall, bracing canvases of varying sizes. their faces were turned outward, and in the midst of them was an ugly couch. a dark green couch, a sidewalk couch, a dormroom couch. upholstery full of cigarette burns. smelling of spilt beer and wine, of perfume and sweat.
sulane sprawled. her leg bent at a forty degree angle over one arm of the couch .. her head hung very close to the floor (yellow curls on seams,) and her knuckles brushed woodgrain. other fingers laid across her stomach. it was concave between hipbones. underwear and an old hanes t-shirt, the paper-thin sort, v-necked and covered over with stains; stains of paint, stains of wine, a hole where she'd put her american spirit out against her ribcage.
the room was full of yellow orange light. constantly ill at ease. sulane was drunk.
i'll take it to the Firehouse, she whispered again of the piece not two steps away .. the oil and blood and newspaper mixed media she'd named 'abrupt.' the Firehouse would show it.
him and his goddamn words of wisdom.
-e
written at 8:22 p.m.
