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nine to the head.
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insane and unknown is my only creed

Fri|10.18

I shouldn't hold things against you. I should've let one thing go, just one. Maybe we'd be speaking now, maybe not. Still, for you, for faith or trust or some other word, I should've let it go.

I didn't.

I don't know you.

I don't know what bothers you, and why. I don't know what doesn't bother you. And why not. You think it shouldn't matter to me, I know that much. But what matters to me is my own business.

When my family stayed in motels down south--Myrtle Beach, Hutchinson Island--I felt anonymous and important, like I was an extra in a movie. Not a speaking part, but where I stood, how I walked, it mattered to the world around me. Things were more real. The walls were hard, flaking white, windows opened sideways, the ocean slammed the sand over and over again. Pool below us, beneath the concrete balcony, scent of salty air, itchy, sandy, burned. Palm trees, Spanish moss, starfish, soda machine.

After my sister stepped on the leg of the tiny black crab and it scuttled away, I stood on the pier alone, and I whispered hi to the air, from a friend.

over the garden wall, two little lovebirds

Wed|10.16

Her oldest brother is dead. She's closer to her middle brother because of it; they used to be at each other's throats but now they try to get along. For their mother, for themselves.

She's married, but you haven't met her husband. You never sent a card, or a gift. You kick yourself for this sometimes, but you would rather not be in contact with her. You tell yourself it's the drinking, that's why. But that isn't why. There are plenty of drinkers you're in touch with. You don't like her, that's all it is.

It's hard to admit. You, you think you like everyone. You don't, though. People are messier than you'd like, filled with their own visions and faults and they go back on things, they think they're telling the truth when in your mind they're not, they see things differently from you. They have slippery boundaries. They will get you into trouble, if you let them.

From a distance, though. Quite lovely. In the abstract, humanity is something you can get into. You'll think more about delving into the up-close part. Or maybe not.

Oh, face it. You don't like her, and those generalized, bullshitlike reasons up above are not why. You don't like her because she gets jealous, because she doesn't mind talking behind your back, because she likes to tell you what to do and how to feel, and can manipulate you smoothly, the grooves for it having been laid over 30 years ago. Your methods of usurping the power she can hold over you consist of your dead-eyed stare, and the phrase, "I'm not comfortable with that." It's not nearly enough.

You talked to her close to two years ago, just after her brother died. She called you at your parents' house. You were home for your father's birthday, and she was miles away. She couldn't just pop over, dominate your time, poke you in the ribs.

She talked for a long time. She was filled with grief, and you listened. She said that her brother had died of a broken heart. She was being literal, and so you didn't mention his liver. Poor taste to bring up organ failure? Yeah. Bad time for tough love? Sure was. So you saved it to tell your sister and brother-in-law when you got off the phone. They liked to hear her stories of denial, liked to shake their heads from a safe distance.

The last time you saw her dead brother was a holiday, maybe two or three Christmases ago. You were home, she was home. Her family was over, hanging out with your family. He was late, and came to the front door clearly plastered. Your brother-in-law smoked some cigarettes with him outside, then came in and talked to you and your sister about him.

It's probably not, you know, NICE or RIGHT to discuss the alcohol-challenged after they've left your vicinity and gone back to their own house, but it can be fun. Especially if they were DRUNK DRUNK DRUNK! So, your brother-in-law fills you in on what the brother had told him.

He'd missed several consecutive flights home because he was in the airport bar. He had spent more than an entire day there, and then passed out at a gate, and then went back into the bar when it reopened. Eventually he got onto a plane, but he was much later than his family had expected him. Like, days later.

SHE had told YOU, you confide to your sister and her husband, that this oldest brother of hers had a new scheme, something to do with rich Arabs on vacation in America and him providing a "party place" for them. He needed girls. He told her that, with her long blonde hair, she could bring in a lot of money.

Um, you'd said, slightly horrified. Um. Like...? You didn't say prostitution, but you were thinking prostitution.

Nooooo, she said, catching your drift. Just to party. You know.

Yeah, sure do.

The three of you alone in the kitchen, you and your sister and her husband, shake your heads and laugh in amazement. Do you feel superior? Probably. There but for the grace of God, one of you says.

Years pass, you avoid her, she lives her life, missing a brother, missing her father. Does she fear dying, now that she's lost a sibling? He was just eight years older than her. Does she understand how much she drinks?

And does she sit in her living room and at times think of you, the way you think of her? Judge you like you are judging her? Can she picture your inevitable death, and the ways you could've prevented it, if you hadn't been so human, and blind, and stupid?

Who the hell knows.

earth below-whoa-oh us

Mon|10.14

Abba-dabba-abba-dabba.

They say it's Monday.

I haven't worked since September 10th.

It's absolutely FABULOUS.

Except for the sick part.

But it's not like I'm dying.

I be okay.

Lalala Lalala Lalala.

So like how do I make myself do things? I guess that's the wrong question. "MAKE MYSELF" like that's attractive. Nothing to fuel up desire like MAKING YOURSELF. If I

If you

If we

If if if if if if if

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

ch-ch-chaaaain, ch-ch-chay-yaaain

Sun|10.13

In a week I'll be 36. Did you think you would die young? I thought I would die young. Definitely before now. No plans needed, wouldn't live that long. Yet. Here I am.

It's not an original thought; John and Adam snorted when I told them. They thought they'd be dead by now, too, but they're even older than me. "Everyone thinks that," they said.

Teenager, early 20s, who expects to make 30? Some people must. Realists. People able to plan their lives without feeling sick at the length of it, the possibilities and expectations.

Adam's from John's hometown, a childhood friend, played in bands together. Adam stares at me and when I notice, he doesn't look away. I do, though. Which makes him grin. Later he grabs my wrist, turns it to see my tattoo.

"Jesus," he says. "That's pretty serious."

He walks me home. He eats a popsicle. He has a wedding ring but claims divorce, and I believe him. Later John denies it's true, then amends it to say he doesn't know, maybe.

Hmmmmmm.

A homeless guy in front of my building talks to us. Adam seems uncomfortable. When the man leaves, Adam says that I handled that well. What does he mean by that? There was nothing to handle. Is he trying out flattery or telling me what he thinks of homeless people?

I suspect a mean streak, and look for clues. Used to be a cop, for one. But I'm prejudiced about that. Benefit of the doubt, maybe.

Drinks. A lot? Don't know yet. Doesn't say much but is able to read what I'm thinking, and says it out loud to me. It's embarrassing, and intriguing. How does he know? Am I that easy?

I act girly and stupid around him, and disgust myself. I can't stop it, though. When he says he used to be a cop, I say, eyes wide: "Have you ever killed anyone?"

He laughs, incredulous. "Whaaat?" Then: "No!"

We talk about fighting, and I know that he's really been in fights by the advice littered throughout the conversation. "You want it to end as soon as possible. Do what you can to take him out. The longer it goes, the better your chances of getting hurt. There's no such thing as fighting dirty unless you're in a ring."

He has brass knuckles. He shows them to me. Lets me try them on.

He goes back home and I take walks with John. Adam is all I want to talk about but I don't want to be obvious. John tells some sordid stories from their past that do nothing but make Adam more attractive. John is quick to catch on.

"Adam's no prize," he tells me.

"But he's your best friend."

"That's why I'm telling you. He's no prize."

I mention our talk about fighting and John says that people take an instant dislike to Adam, and so yeah, he's been in a lot of fights.

"He's got bad juju," he says. "It sounds stupid, but I can't explain it any other way. We'll go somewhere, and some guy will start a fight with him for no reason. Complete strangers, haven't said a word to each other, they wanna kick his ass. People either love him or hate him."

I think he must be exaggerating.

Adam comes back in April with his son. He's three, and of course he's adorable. John is going back with them for a week when they leave, and I'm in charge of the parakeet.

It's Easter, and I get another tattoo.

"You can't explain why you like the number, but you tattoo it on yourself?" They are both laughing at me.

I try harder to explain, but the faces they're making are too much. I shrug. "I just like it."

John snorts. He's against tattoos anyway. Adam stares at me with half his mouth curled into a smile. His eyes seem cold, but maybe it's the glasses. He's reading my mind again.

I go home, and have an argument with my own head. You have no proof of meanness, I remind myself. Yeah you do. Would he be so incredibly sexy to you if he weren't mean? If he weren't an asshole? But he's MY kind of asshole. Yeah, YOUR kind. That makes it better. Oh shut up. Everyone's an asshole in their own way. Ooooh, how wise. How pithy. Shut up I said! Stupid girl.

The next morning, around five, we meet in the street. It's still dark. We're going to the earthquake memorial ceremony down by Lotte's Fountain. The little boy is sleepy, and Adam carries him. Adam's sweet with him, tender, and I think he's probably a good father.

We're all kind of cranky, and his remarks seem designed to piss me off. Or maybe he means them? I can't tell. He does glance at me for reactions. I don't give him any.

"See that?" he says to his son. He's pointing to a large billboard above Union Square, a doped-up looking blonde in Guess jeans and no shirt. "That's what you get when you grow up, if you have enough money."

What the hell does that mean? I shoot him a look and he gives me that cold little smile. Was that for my benefit? But why? It's fucked up either way, because he just said that to a three-year-old boy. What is he teaching him?

Nothing, probably, because the kid just looks confused for a moment and then moves his attention to something else.

After the ceremony there are mimosas in the lobby of a nearby bank. We linger for a few minutes, then head for home.

Walking up Geary, we pass a sleeping woman who is wearing a sweater and nothing else. She's pressed against the glass of Macy's, hugging herself. Is she sleeping? I do see her breathing. Jesus, she shouldn't be out here like this, no pants on. What the hell happened to her? As usual, I do nothing. There is probably something I could do, but I can't think of what and I want to stop looking, I want to pass her and forget.

Adam snickers, and makes a remark to John that I don't catch. I glare at him.

"What?"

"You think that's funny?"

He reads my expression and his response to it flickers across his eyes before I can tell what it is.

"What if I do?"

"I'm not in the mood for your shit," I mutter.

"I'll tell you when you're not in the mood."

"I'm not."

He growls at me, repeats himself.

"I'll tell you when you're not in the mood."

I move ahead of them. Yesterday that would've worked on me, I think. Caused stupid flirtatious faux-dangerous banter. This morning, not so much.

We say goodbye at my corner, the four of us. I reach out to the little one, who has nodded off in his father's arms, and brush my hand against his soft blonde hair.

They drive up the coast that day. I feed John's parakeet and think about Adam. What do you do with a man who offers to go on a binge with you, a man who thinks hookers can't be raped? You store him away in your mind for another time. Listen to updates. Wonder if he'll change. Find out he really is still married. He fades, just like everyone else.

It's not a big deal, really.

ain't got nothing but love for you baby

Sat|10.12

Playground is empty except for four kids on the bleachers, a teenaged couple and a friend of each one, dragged here.

You're one of the friends.

Robby hates you, and you return the feeling. You try to never look at him. Argh. Why does she go out with him. When she throws up from the stress, when they have screaming fights, when he cheats on her with her own friends, and slaps her, and now they both, Robby and Mena, have ulcers. Why? Why do it, and why bring you along? Why can't she be alone with him?

Fifteen sucks as much as fourteen did. You stare out at the empty field, at the woods to the left, the fenced-in backyards of houses in the distance. Basketball court to the right. Small shed, where the playground supplies are kept. Make has climbed to the top of the shed, and is throwing things in your general direction. Another fuckhead you're blessed to spend time with.

There's no beer, no pot. Just the four of you, the twilight, the empty playground. The beige dirt outlining the diamond, the small pitcher's mound. The swings, jungle gym, slide, teeter-totter. And that fuckhead, up on the roof. Throwing things.

You feel Robby's eyes burning into you. "Leave, leave, leave," he mutters. You would, if Mena would let you. Free will? Ha. Meet Mena, then talk about free will.

He's tall, Robby. Blonde. One eye blue, one a muddy green. Good-looking, fast talker. Slick. You've disliked each other since you met for the first time, years ago. Yet you see him almost daily, because Mena will not go alone. Ever.

Summer. Another day will pass into the next. It'll be 11th grade. Some day your braces will come off. Some day, the same as never. Just like the night will not get darker, just like tomorrow will be like today. You wish you were grown up, an adult, when things will be fucking interesting. No more of this sitting around bullshit. Yeahhhhh. An adult.

You hear Make's sneakers hit the ball court. He's leapt from the roof. Earlier, he and Robby were carving their own initials into their forearms. Morons. Make with his knife always in his back pocket, like a comb. Except different.

You've learned Make's real name is Antoine. From a friend of a friend. You were warned to never call him that, though, SWEAR TO GOD YOU WILL NOT TELL HIM I TOLD YOU! Sure. You swear to God. Why not.

Now you look at him. Antoine. A perfectly fine name. What's wrong with it, that he hates it? You look up at Robby. His paws are all over Mena. Every so often she protests. "Rahhhhbby! Stahhhhhp. Cleo's here."

"So tell her to go home," Robby says.

"Go home," Mena says to you, while shaking her head and mouthing, "DON'T!"

Robby smirks at you. You wish he'd turn his head, catch Mena shaking hers. Wish he'd know, finally, that you'd rather be anywhere else.

You stand up, and call, "Hey, Antoine!"

Why the hell not.

Make looks at you. Haha. Pissed off, you can tell from here.

"What'd you call me?"

"Antoine." You try to sound puzzled. "It's your name, right? Annnnnntwaaaaan?"

Ohhhh shit. The space between the two of you shortens and he's nearly on top of you before you realize, hey, maybe run. Yeah, run away.

So you do, and he's right behind you.

Mmmm, air on your face, adrenaline spreading. Feels good. You're on the other side of the teeter-totter, now you face him and play which-way-you-coming-from? He fakes to the right. His knife is out. Maybe he will cut you? Stick you? Maybe. Now you might be scared. Yeah, fear. You feel it. He feints to the left, and fools you, and catches you on the other side. Jumps you.

Now he's on top of you, knife in hand, both of you breathing hard. What will he do? You look at him. His face is freckled, his hair falls into his dark eyes and he shakes it away. He stares back. Your fear is gone, the residual rush from it faint, because now, looking at each other, you both know that he isn't going to do anything. Nothing.

There's an awkward silence. He gets off of you and stands, brushes off his jeans. Walks away. You stand too, wipe some dirt from your pants.

Now it's dark. Now the streetlights are on.

You head back to the bleachers. Mena will have to leave soon.