Deep down, I dig everything.

Fri|03.21

Let's tell stories. They distract and whatnot. Amuse. Stuff. Let's tell stories.

Okay, I got one.

Okay.

I lived on the Boston College line, out near Harvard Ave. I spent one full summer temping at the Museum of Fine Arts when I was 20; two summers before that I temped at the Museum for two weeks.

My hair was extraordinarily short and Jake had just left me. Or, I had left him. It was confused, he broke up with me just before we were set to move in together, and I had no place else to go, so we did move in together but as "friends" and this lasted for a day and a half, until my brother came up and helped me to move out, and drove all of my stuff plus me back home for a while.

I was depressed, and so in love with Jake, and had been positive that this was it for me, it was Jake Jake Jake and how could he not feel that? Didn't he feel it? How could I make him feel it?

I spent days crying in the backyard, hanging laundry on the line, mowing the lawn, swimming, crying, going out with my friend Mena who kept setting me up with people I wasn't even interested in meeting. I was forlorn and spineless and I went wherever I was told to, and kissed whoever happened to be sitting there expectantly while Mena was in the back room of wherever we happened to be with the reason for us being out in the first place.

She'd never been comfortable with dating alone, I was needed for some reason. It didn't even matter if there was someone for me, she couldn't go alone. I didn't care, I didn't care about anything. Each night was a new humiliation, each night made me squirm. I never said no to her. I cried a lot. I hung up laundry.

Wow, how's that for a story. But if I could bring us back to the Museum of Fine Arts.

I worked in the department that people called constantly for information, perhaps it was the Information Department. I don't think so, though. This was after I'd gone back to Boston after taking as much of being home as I could. I was 18. I had dropped out of college and was now making moves to drop back in, having missed absolutely nothing, it being summer and all. Oh, except for all of those Statistics classes. I missed those. But I digress.

My hair was short. The shortest it had ever been, shorter than my Pixie cut in elementary school, when I was mistaken for a boy by an older kid and I would have punched him I was so indignant, but he was up on a roof.

I was staying in the back room of my sister's apartment and making a general ass of myself. Smoking inside even after being asked politely not to by her roommate, thinking like a teenager that no one could smell it unless they were right next to me breathing in my air. Playing sad Led Zeppelin songs too loudly on my sister's stereo. Leaving dirty dishes about, spending hours on a phone that wasn't mine. Drinking whatever beer was in the fridge, feeling like it was all communal, man. What? You paid for this and wanted to drink it yourself? Huh.

Huh. Sorry about that, I guess I'll just walk two feet away from you and light up a cigarette.

I was having panic attacks before each new temp job but didn't know it had a name, just that I was terrified of leaving the house and would rather ride the subway all over the place than go to where I was supposed to work that day. Somehow I made myself show up at the Museum.

I liked it there. I wandered around the galleries at lunch, staring at patriots and rich people from galaxies ago. What? I can't measure time in galaxies? Huh.

Huh.

I spent most of the days answering the phone, and some other time typing things on a typewriter. Letters, memos, so forth. Got busted for dividing words incorrectly, was given a dictionary to look things up in. Split words how? On a syl-la-ble? That's just ca-razy. And I'm too a-lazy.

I developed a crush on a boy who worked in the back, probably a few years older than me, a film student I believe. Or something. He was cute and shy, with short dark hair, and I could tell he was funny although I never worked up nerve to speak to him. I could see it in his eyes or something. Then I saw his card in the department Rolodex: "Frank Hill IS Frank Hill in the Frank Hill story."

Well, that soldered it. To me brain. "Love" it was.

Oh sure, there was the not speaking thing. He was shy, I was shy. And yes, then the job was over, and I only saw him one more time: my sister and I were at the Museum attending a concert a couple of weeks later and he was there with another person from the department, and he said, "Hi! We were just talking about you today." I felt a hot blush move up my neck and cover my entire head and I managed to say, "Good things, I hope," and he nodded. There, that was it.

The end.

The most trouble I had was on the phone. This may have been where I worked up my hate of answering the phone at a job, but maybe I already had it. Oh yes, I already had it. Snooty-ass members would call and sniff at me and ask all kinds of outrageous questions that I didn't know the answer to, and I didn't realize I could speak back or be anything but timid and young and polite.

One woman who called about a concert series asked if there was assigned seating, and of course there wasn't, because you brought a blanket and sat on the lawn, or a lawnchair and you know, sat on the lawn. I said that it was general admission and she sniffed, LITERALLY, sniffed, and said, "You mean we will be HERDED IN like so much CATTLE?" "Yes," I answered, because, well, yes, not exactly like cattle, no, but. She was flummoxing. To me. And my short, short hair.

you say that it's gospel but I know that it's only church

Wed|03.19

I've been somewhat ignoring the news that "we" are bombing Iraq. Okay I know we are. But I can't stand watching the news. (NEWS, I want to put that in quotes.) It is so wrong to be doing, this WAR (another word for quotes) and it boggles my mind that it's happening, and. What can I do? Protesting seems useless to me, although it's good for people to see that not everyone is falling into line.

Is there anything that I can do that would make a difference? Probably I'm powerless over international issues. I mean I THINK so. I kind of wanted to join with those western peaceniks who put themselves on the front line. I can't remember what they were called.

I wonder how these two are doing.

If this is rain let it fall on me and drown me If these are tears let them fall

Mon|03.17

So I miss you so fucking SUE ME.

My head hurts, I'm not over not sleeping yet. I think I'm sick. WhatEVER. I'm just glad I don't own a gun. For SO many reasons. Okay, for two: I won't shoot myself or anyone else. There, how's that.

All I seem to be able to keep up with is laundry. Probably due to me not having many clothes. Everything else is going to hell. Well, it can stay there. Fuck it.

Nothing is right. Everything is wrong, this is wrong, the world is wrong, my head is wrong, I feel wrong inside, and out is not much better.

I don't even care if I make sense. I used to care a little bit, not now though.

Fuck it.

Two hours late to work this morning, on the bus on the way this man I recognized got on. He's very tall, with a big frame, distinct face, platinum-white feathered hair, strange choice in glasses. I can't stand this guy. I don't know him, but I've ridden enough buses with him to know that I don't want to. He is a loud 12-stepper, the kind that will not SHUT THE FUCK UP the kind that drove me away from meetings. Okay yeah, it's someone else's fault. Hahaha. Actually I never gave meetings a chance, they made me want to drink too much.

So this guy who I don't know, how do I know he's a gratefully recovering alcoholic and addict? Because he talks SO FUCKING LOUD. Like everyone on the bus must be interested in how he shared his story last night and was soooo grateful for the feedback and the appreciation, and that everyone seems to get so much out of his story and he is just, you guessed it, SO FUCKING GRATEFUL! THAT HE ROCKS THE RECOVERY WORLD!

Anyway I spot him outside the bus and just know he's gonna climb on and he sure does. But he's alone! And has not yet resorted to talking to himself or pretending to carry on a conversation with a stranger so that he can regale the whole bus with his splendiferous god-granted serenity.

So, yay, I think, I won't have to hear his fucking voice.

But then. An old guy with either a rug or shoeshined black hair gets on and starts telling the bus driver about how he's gonna be getting into the brew because it's St. Patrick's Day.

"The fruit?" she asks, mishearing him, and he shouts, "The brew! THE BREW!"

"Oh," she says, not really caring one way or another.

"I gave that up a long time ago," says feathered white-hair, and I groan and hold my head in my hands. Mentally, of course. Not for real. That would be unseemly.

"Oh well, if you can't handle it you shouldn't do it!" the old toupee man shouts. This seems to be his normal speaking voice. I hunker down for the battle. I start humming a Christina Aguilera song to myself.

"I handled it too well, if you know what I mean. It wasn't that I couldn't handle it."

Of course not. you are beautiful no matter what they say...

"Too good a time, huh?" laughs the bus driver, trying to keep things light.

"Maybe for two minutes," feathered hair says, "The rest was pretty bad."

"Well if you can't handle it you shouldn't do it!" Toupee shouts.

words can't bring me dowwwwn...

At this point feathered-head talks about alcohol-related deaths and how it's socially acceptable to be drunk and blah blah blah. The little toupeed fella stares at him. Is that steam coming out his ears? Maybe. Maybe so.

The big guy pauses for a breath, and toupee jumps in.

"Well that's all fine and good for you! You stop if you like! But when people tell other people what to do well that's where I draw the line, you bet! Why just the other..."you are beautiful, no matter what they sayyyyy

words can't bring you dowwwwwn

They both get off at Fourth Street and I sing to myself until the end of the road, then limp on in to work.

a tooth for a tooth an eye for an eye. and in the end the whole world is blind.

Sun|03.16

Desperately seeking remote control. Rented three DVDs, third one can't even WATCH without you, remote. I need you baby. Come to me remote. Come to me be with me, let me watch Snatch.

Damn the gunfire is loud. Here in my oneroom. Here where I watch Heat. Here. Here. Here.

Blood. Blood.

This book is good. Took me a bit to get into it, and then the girl's all tough and I'm all, you ain't all THAT tough, I'm not buying this. But then maybe. Okay maybe. So.

Ha. I forgot Henry Rollins is in this movie. BRIEFLY praise bosifus.

Tomorrow is Monday which is work which is ...

What is it.

Undesirable.

Draining.

Not for me.

Want another tattoo. Maybe one on my finger, a jailhouse tattoo that says, not you too.

stand a little out of my sun

Sat|03.15

Just realized as I typed the date that it's our anniversary. Our being not ours, but the then us, you and me, over now longer than we were together. THE IDES OF MARCH ARE UPON THEEEEE!!! Or whatever.

Worked more in the past two days than I have in months. Ouch. That hurt.

I heard things, I smelled coffee and noticed it was six; was someone else here? YAY! Not alone. But went to kitchen and no, no one was there. I was still alone. It would be an hour and a half before someone came in; bright, fresh-faced, happy, just rode her bike in. Bubbles. I love her. Then came New Guy, then a few others. Then Hera; she saw my shirt and said, "You never went home!" And it was true, I'd been sitting there for 22 hours. Okay I got up a few times. And so forth. But yes. Wow. I was somewhat hallucinating. I was acting strangely to many people. Everything was funny, and nothing was. I laughed I cried. I took a bagel. I went home.

Hot, HOT shower, the best feeling. Lay on the bed, twitching. Cat was happy to see me. She quacked and quacked then settled down a bit. I guess I passed out.

Few hours later, phonecall, up again. Another hot HOT shower. Clothes. Sat on bed, unsure of what the fuck. Made it to the bus.

It was strange outside, dark, windy, the sun a bright hole hidden by many sky things and people, newspapers, garbage blew about. Old one-leg spoke garbled and urgent sentences to a group of EMTs gathered a few feet from him. He fell from his perch as I walked by.

Bus, or underground? Underground is so much faster. But it's not on top it's down below. Arrival of the 71 answers my question and I shoulder past the crowded front and take a seat in the last row. Slide open a window. Look outside. More things blowing about.

I am giggly and nonsensical and unable to stay still during a meeting about where we are AT exactly and I do lunges, I can't help myself. My friend Dino who is leaving next week laughs at me; it's late afternoon and he's been here all day and absorbed the crazy; later in my office he pounds his head against the door. Someone asks why he's doing that and I say "He's got the awwww tizm!" way too loud. We both crack up.

Ten hours later I am finished and it is raining on me and it is 2 a.m. outside and dark, deserted. A cab hits the corner just as I do and I flag him down. He takes me home and gives me two receipts when I ask for one; so did the driver the night before. I wonder how many rides I had. How many people I am. Two. I am two people.

Things in my head are crowded and need out so I sleep, finally, and they let loose and push out and at each other and I dream of stabbings and dicks and screaming and a friend calling me a baked potato in a loving manner. I lounge in bed for a while. I stare at things. I'm not okay but I'm better. Some zzzips are still inside of here so I will sleep again.

I will do that now.