Not at Home at Home

So, back home and things were okay for a few days, but now I am desperately sinking and feel like I'm back in an old hole that I thought I had broken out of a long time ago... Only now I realize that I never really broke out of it, I only went away for a little while.

I am screaming and screaming inside and even so, I recognize that it is all futile.

Nobody hears. There is nobody to hear. (I mean, what would I say even if I wanted to?)

And there is that same familiar friend-- that choked weight in my chest. I feel as horrible and loathsome as ever and it is uncontrollable... even when I tell myself to get a grip. And meanwhile, all I want to do is go back and stay in the city... I feel like I am not myself here... and all of the same values shower me and spill over my shoulders.

I began to think that the world extended beyond the edges of this 3x5 photo...

Anyway, I played piano for hours today to keep myself from crying. I want to scream and I want to get out of here and go somewhere where I can1 Oh god...

Meanwhile, it's 10:04 PM, my mom's not home, BigSis is at Bro-in-Law's, LilSis is upstairs, my stepfather is seeing his kids...

I went to the high school today and wanted to fold myself into my eyes...

I have to get out of here soon!

The Colors of Emptiness

The nylon sticks to my skin and my hands turn orange, all reminding me about myself and my padded numb toes and this emptiness emptiness emptiness leaving my cheeks hollow and marked by the yellowed linens of my bed.

White seems tea-stained and my eyes have grown cloudy. I desperately whip my head around, eyes scanning for an exit, but I only end up rubbing my sore neck and dilating from the swollen red that floats around me on every side... This kind of emptiness never lies and never forgives...

On Train and Boat

God... such a headache!

On the LIRR back to Manhattan, but derailed in Port Washington... And my mind tastes like the stolen German coal reserves in the aftermath of WWI. Purple hoods and rimmed eyes... And the greens outside today sparkle-- almost as much as the leaves on the tomb of US Grant and the sky laces in shades of Ferris Bueller. It is too much to write... to think... with such enticing and delicious treats right outside the window.

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So, here on the Circle Line, cramped between the corners of the world with silver sun and the gray shadows of diamonds painting the pages. The breeze and the mystery of their laughter and my baking arms all set the tone of anticipation of a great joy... if only not for the crowd!

-Gramercy Park (Edith Wharton territory)
-Orchard Street
-The Staten Island Ferry at night (free)
-Barge Music (SS Seaport--chamber music cruises)

Reaching

At Dr. B's (voice) again... done with school, and it is all so odd. To think that daily life can disintegrate that way (stolen pen) and I wonder why GoldenFinch never called me back. And it makes me worry and hate her all at the same time.

Anyway... things, of the past few months (weeks) seem to have all been erased, and I know, in my heart, that they never happened.

I am seeing my grandparents today. They just got back from Florida... Anyway, I hate the idea of leaving school, but for St. Petersburg which will change my name and make me cry. (Now everything I fought for is at stake.)

I hope that I get to go on the Circle Line tomorrow. Anyway, I don't really have anything to say, and that frightens me. (Clean, condition, shine with just three pads, he said in the infomercial)... Well I pause for the blank...

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Well, later later later... And in a Victorian beaded gown... Lamplight and X-Files and aged lace and an aching back. I will close myself into the soft cloth and comfort of this time...

Laughing with the Ghosts at the Cloisters

...So, time goes on and another book...

Wedged against rotting red stone and Spanish tiles, laughing with the ghosts... And it is almost 5:00 PM, the heat has been merciful and the birds sing their thanks... The Cloisters...

And I feel as if I could be anywhere... I have no country and no time and imagine the rich fabrics and folds of my skirts. And the rapidity with which I must deliver my message as I rustle through the narrow passageways of my home. Or, Several hundred years have passed... It is the eve of the French Revolution and this place is dead... a barn, put home and history so alive because it is a natural part of the landscape of my memory-- the human memory.

I want to be here, without motion for eternity. Without time or place, now, I feel like I am in eternity... I am kissed by these ghosts and almost believe that i have been right all along... that memory doesn't die and that I am them and they are me.

And that ache ache ache (!) returns with a bittersweet sigh of calm and (?) (content?) nearness. Adam and God so close on their clouds. No, we have not touched, but I see them. I know that they exist, and I wonder what it will take to scoot two inches closer-- if it is possible at all.

I feel a surge of time and see the truth. Even though I know that it will be erased from memory as quickly as it was revealed. I see your rosy lips! The smallness of your frame and pulled hair!

I see!

Death and the Little Girl

I just got off the subway where I saw death in a bright blue shirt. Her hair was a golden orange, stiff and stringy. Her harms were brown and white, punctured at the joints. Her teeth were gone and her cheeks wee sunken and she had a stroller with her, holding a fat cheeked little girl in a yellow sundress. She was sweet and loved her and told her to wipe her hands, feeding her little bits of hot-dog and giving her paper and a pencil to color with.

But when she kept dropping them on the floor, death started to cry and clutch her stomach, yelling at the little girl, "Stop making Mommy bend! You know that it makes me bleed when I have to bend!"

And I sighed and got off at 59th Street.

The little girl clapped her hands and wiggled around in her stroller, kicking up her white buckled feet in oblivion.

Now I am on the crosstown bus.

The End of "Seinfeld"

Done! Done! Done! (Well, almost!)

And it is Thursday, but I haven't gone to sleep since Tuesday night and vomit everything that I eat...

But the sun is shining, here on the sleeve of the Hudson, and this breeze paints me with wide strokes. The dirty neck of a bottle and a pigeon... a red checkered girl and these waving shadows. And I, peering out at this renewal over my sleepless ringed lids, shiver and wonder why it can't be mine today... even in a jean-jacket.

And today is the last episode of Seinfeld and the sky spits Seinfeld at me from everywhere. And I am cold and my stomach hurts, but I wonder if home will be better...

I will go... I will try...