It's the middle of the night
I have to do this; I have to write
I am using voice input technology on my cell phone
Because I find it much easier and more likely for me
I keep wondering what is wrong with me
I didn't sleep well last night and tim texted early before the sun came up and said he was not feeling well enough to work
Then in my retardation I went into hillside liquor store right after ten am
I gave myself rules about how little I could drink
Then I just kept drinking the vodka and making myself sick in every way ....
I don't feel sick, but my head just hurts a little bit from dehydration and lack of rest
I was just watching my free cams
Gia Hill and I forgot the name of the other woman, but she's one of my favorites, it's kitty something. -corner
I sent some heavy texts to anna
They were about pain and mind and God
I don't really think they were too heavy. But I don't really have any perspective about most people
I like to get In the christmas spirit
The fairy lights are on in my apartment kitchen and entry way
I don't like halloween much but I love Over the Garden Wall and this is the middle of Fall
Now I must try to sleep so that I can do good work with tim and for tim and for everyone most of all myself
Oh, yeah, I just booked a hotel room at a La Quinta near our job site for the next 2 nights, so that I can just drive a couple minutes to work.
It does seem like a crazy waste of money.
But what am I really?
Okay. Here are the texts that I sent Anna:
https://youtu.be/hK5w0_rqfvE?si=CkMJxeBhpDUCrjNj
It's strange and hard to get into, but for a long time I've been fascinated by pain, what exactly is it? Why is it so fascinating. : https://youtu.be/0VyH1laOd2M?si=7VDnY_fArQb4zHf6
I think It's just a part the biggest questions, what is mind, what are we / God...
Hello again, Anna, hope you're well. I just saw this poem, is pretty cool.
by Siri Hustvedt
Weather Markings
The list of small deformities passed unrecorded
In the stupor of heredity,
Like our weather,
Clouding over the tiny barn
Where he said he saw Judas hanging
Behind the old tractor
But it was the Swensby boy in a blue and yellow plaid shirt
And no note.
He went screaming Judas into the cornfield
And couldn’t be hushed until evening.
Oh God the failure of prayers in the idiot days
Of summer behind the goldenrod,
Dusty on my hands; scattering doubts like the dandelions
Turned white and blown to seed—
More doubts and more prayers
Asking God not to hide his face:
The face of our weather, immense and old,
Covering the sky with clouds to smother the moon:
A small oval, like the small pale face of Jesus
In the blue book on the table with one unsteady leg.
Look at the sky, Marit,
Look at the bland green behind the leaves’ paralysis
In the minutes when panic is suspended
In an estranged color,
Before the cellar door is raised
And we descend into the air
Preserving canned goods,
Before the prayers in the damp on the cold concrete
And long before the rain.
Inga with a withered hand waves it over the uprooted maple
Where the swing hung for twelve years
And where we played the fields were an ocean
And the tree a ship,
Before the mosquitoes came at about nine
And we fled in to cards or stories upstairs:
Matching suits as one moth tries the screen
And flies for the bulb
A puny tremor of white over the grey mattress
Where you sat naked on a Friday that summer.
I fingered the scar on your hip in the empty house
And whispered anyway:
Our clandestine music in muggy weather
During a walk
Past the still green grapes and the clothesline
With one pair of socks and an apron;
Belated spectres of surprise in the night,
Belonging to no one, except the heat
And our tipsy inclination.
Those hours were unmartyred,
Almost unspent,
Requiring the same effort as a dream
When the scenery becomes illegible,
And I forgot the ache of familiarity in the outlines
Of the rainwater barrels and the pump
And I concentrated on the stars,
The dot to dot of the big and little dipper.
But they began to die as the storm
Gathered for the drowning.
Turn off the lights so I can’t see your face,
Hide your prints made in the mud
With your bare feet between the zinnias and the columbine
So they never reach morning,
And let me have your scent only.
When the hidden sun was just giving pink to the sky
You pressed me into a corner behind the door
And traced with your finger
The large violet birthmark on the left side of my face.
From issue no. 81 (Fall 1981)
