Sunday, January 30, 2011

The Things I Don't Say


This is not a love song.

I've been sipping away at a pint of Fireball whiskey. This is the first time I have had a pint of booze all to myself since the summer I graduated from high school. That was well over a decade ago. I don't get out much. I am the clean lines of a Mennonite coat rack. I am the right angles and the bare wood.

It is so late. It is also so silent. I am starting to be able to think deeply and vividly now that the noise has abated. Household noise gets to you by the end of January. I am the crankiest I've been in months. But I am not that cranky at all.

You once intimated thinking may be overrated but I think my brain would have to disagree. It is, however, all in what you think about. That much I will give you.

I don't mean to brag about the booze thing. I know it is a pathetic thing to mention, but you know a girl gets her kicks where she can.

I used to be afraid to be home all alone. Now I am not. Why? Because I have strategically placed weapons all over the house. Nobody but me knows where they all are.

I've been completely enamored with ghost stories for months. I like to scare myself. It's something I used to never ever do.

Dress pants is sort of like saying water drink or salt pepper. Somewhere in between those two worlds.

I don't know what I am hoping to find at the bottom of things. But this is good. To be sleepless and curious and devious and rebellious and mostly harmless. To know myself. To mine own self be true.

That sort of thing.

I had a dream two nights ago. In my dream I was a very small child and my uncle told me my father died. And I remember thinking how strange it was because I could almost here his footsteps from moments ago. Then, in my dream, I cried like a baby. I wailed. I sobbed. It was fairly wretched. I woke up feeling like I had finally reached my core. I had finally answered my ever-lasting question: did I cry when he died? Yes. I did. Somewhere within my understanding I broke like crystal in the shrillness of a madman. Crumble. Burn. Ashes. Rebuild. Rise. Fly. Soar. No problem.

So-the plane grows even. Not that I am alone in this process. It has taken an army to get me to this far.

Oh day of days, my friend. I realized yesterday that I finally know who I am. I know what my story is. The provence of this life exists in my dreams. That's fine with me. It seems safe there.

Death is a ridiculous thing.

Often I have thought about asking friends who still know you how you are. I refrain. I don't ask.

It's like-you know-whatever.


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