Midnight:
It's weird to feel completely alone in a crowd. Or even with the one you love. It's worse I think- that kind of lonely than being alone. I am rarely lonely or bored on my own. My imagination has always been a place to go when life is too harsh or too dull. One of the perks of growing up in trauma. I learned to use my brain how I wanted. It was a place of lush greenery, dry desserts and space stations.
Tonight I am feeling a little lost and needing to be on my way I think. I am no longer useful right now. I feel like a large fern taking up room and air here now.
The house is dusted and clean. The dishwasher is full. I've done the laundry. Unless I begin another layer of cleaning I can't imagine what I can do to help at this point. Getting home is tricky. I don't have a car. Buses have too much perfume and the rideshares I've found are all leaving next week. A may have to drive me down and do a quick turn around. I'd love to have a car right this minute. I'd be headed toward the water which is not far away from me. It's a tease to taste the salt water, have it touch my skin in the fog but not see it. I want to see horizon at the edge of ocean. I want to feel both small and large at once. I want to feel at home like I always do near the water.
I've had time to draw today. That helped. Tomorrow I'll write everyone a letter who is family here and thank them for sharing their mother with me at the end. It was generous of them even though she demanded it. It was generous of them even though they were (some of them) mean at first. I can't blame them. I only had time for the dying woman that first night. I shook hands and went back to her when she wanted me at her bedside.
3:00 AM
It will be hard to leave. I'll miss A and I'll miss this new dog, Shadoe who has taken me into his pack. He's curled up on the floor next to the sofa bed right now. I love him. It will be hard to leave but it's time. I feel interloper again. Not belonging. Ready and not all at once. It makes me edgy.
Plus I'm craving things I don't like to crave. I can, unlike most of the people in my family of origin, have the occasional drink. But I don't drink sad, I don't drink angry, I don't drink depressed. These are the rules I live by and the wine in the refrigerator keeps calling my name.
I don't want to be the only one walking around who just feels their pain instead of muting it. Well of course I do, that is the choice I made long ago and continue to make every day. But I think the trigger fest is wearing me down. I'm thinking of Bukowski poems right now. Thinking of old, cracked black vinyl seated bar stools lined up against the bar and the bottles behind the counter. I'm thinking of ice cubes rattling against glass and clean clear vodka shots, water back.
5:30 AM
Yes it's time. Time to attend to my own dust. Time to attend to my cat who must think I've left him forever. Time to make a casserole or two and hitchhike out of town. Time to wrap up my longings which cannot be met just now, and get them back to my house where they know how to live tucked away, gracefully instead of throbbing like a bad tooth.
I'm feeling a little stuck, a little trapped. And it's not that I don't want to be here, I do. And yet...I want to leave when it's time and it's time. It's another layer of complexity that makes my over tired head hurt. It's dark and thickly misty outside. My feet are talking about walking out with or without me. Wanting air and a good night's sleep past the witching hour, which for me has been at two every night. He is lying between me and the door. He's going to miss me and me him. The house is done with me and will not. I've served my purpose here. It's ready for the next thing, which will be being taken apart bit by bit and deep cleaned and painted and put on the market. Now two beloved people have died here. Nobody wants to live in this house, except for maybe A and Shadoe.
What about you? Ever been away from home too long and not quite able to get back? Or torn between home and love that lives someplace else?
What about those cravings that are not good for us that rise up in times of crisis. Is it alcohol or too much chocolate cake? Or just the desire to drive really, really fast. I have that too. I keep eyeing A's truck and picturing myself headed for the water.
“If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.”
― Charles Bukowski, Factotum
― Charles Bukowski, Factotum
It's no surprise I have always loved Bukowski. He's such an asshole. He's a familiar to me. A brilliant (sometimes) drunk. I've been grinning, reading poems and quotes. I'd invite him over for breakfast if I could and fix him a Bloody Mary and argue with him if he'd let me. After all, I'm a woman and not his type. Well, not unless I get some spanx and high heels.
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