[written upon exiting a work day that spanned from 6:30 in the morning, brief interlude at noon, to 11pm. Exhausted, I waited all shift, in high spirits to leave for the night. Upon getting what I wanted, I bummed a cigarette from a server and crossed the wet road to my car in which I sat, and sat. And sat, staring. I didn’t know what I was waiting for and was quite restless and numb and depressed. I craved release, but didn’t know where to scratch.]
When my study isn’t interrupted by my living, I have the constant inner monologue of my mother, conveniently placed across the hall. I hear her pretend a camera is focused on her meaningless life. She’s quite responsible and lovable and admirable, my mom. But dear Christ! To become her? Oh it would be a responsible and loveable and admirable life path, but dear God, so utterly sad. The man she once thought to be the love of her life – the one she would make beautiful babies with in the countryside and all the while love him through his supreme intellect and depressive quirks, whereas, post-babies, she only realized what an insufferable ass, mucking about in his own misery, and you know the sex wasn’t that good toward the end, the two of them presently placed on the opposing poles of the house, shortly after the birth of her last child *tah-dah*. As though she used him for his favorable sperm to create my sisters and I. To create an ambitious and intelligent but God-awfully BORING career woman with just enough spice left in her life for a weekly cooking class while she moves up in (choke) society, an underachieving slave with the one gift of good looks and the absolute dumbness to be kind to everyone, and then, the pièce de résistance, a depressed deviant dropout drug addict with a burning existential crisis at every turn. Yes, my admirable, loveable, responsible mother used my shockingly-yet-not-so-shockingly-reminiscent-of-my-current-beau father for her fairytale life of being a mother, which readily revealed itself to be a boring guided existence. I’m so upset, now, that my mother succumbed to the baby lust to marry my dad. Perhaps he’d be off with the interminable suicide march by now, had some half-wit not succumbed to his charms, of which there remains not a sliver nor a speck of, in his sour, balding old-man existence. He lives for work, and therefore, approval. His only admirable moments being at work, as he toils to restore the earth. And yet, even that is being taken away in light of the new generations’ superior understanding of ecological sustainability which employs all methods AGAINST those of the corporations my father works for. So he sits, sadly in his chair, watching whatever on the television and cleaning his grotesque collection of tools that only grows, filling each available nook in our basement. Life can be disgusting sometimes. How can I see their existences as beautiful? My mother literally rotted from the inside, sick with colon cancer two summers ago. Had her ass removed and vagina removed, her only creative sources it seems, and replaced them with a swollen belly, still drunk on the desire to eat. Filth! She holds that sick tummy under her arm like a pregnant belly and it sickens me, festering and growing all the time with shit, pure shit. My mother, so responsible, admirable and loveable, now lives out her days with makeshift children, the puppies, whom she stresses over, wiping their asses like small children. The only conversation she has throughout the day, she fancies herself a Maggie O’Connell, living out in the wilderness – our dirty cluttered, out of fashion ranch house in the sparse, dead woods of urbanizing Middletown, living the day to day life of survival, all the while gorging herself, indulgently, on whatever pastry she pleases, allowing it to smack to her lips and cover her mouth, the most active part of her anatomy, besides her new, ring-side shithole. That mouth flaps always, speaking to nobody with ears to listen – except when somebody’s home – anyone, with this desperate, thinly veiled desire to be heard and marveled at, to validate her continued existence until the cancer comes back and sews her up for good. She disgusts me, her and that mouth and that shithole, which much like the trinity of God are just about the same thing for her. Constantly chugging out a slow, steady, reeking leak of thick sewage. It smells up the bedroom and she revels in it, opens her door wide so everyone else has to sniff it, listen to it, that constant gurgling inner monologue of who-the-fuck-cares. Nothing she says anymore is interesting, though she labels it – and now that I think about it, certainly believes it, as it is certainly her entire world – as funny or novel. She’s grown quite dull in her isolation, chattering on about her stupid friend, who she keeps around to feel superior and clever (but would never admit so to herself because they’re “the oldest friends and you stick with friends like that, through thick and thin” – aw fuck her mom! She’s somehow more infuriating than you in her vast vapidity, and you get yourself so goddamned worked up over the horse she pulls out of her emphysemic ass. Mom always reminding me to stop smoking, with Lorraine as bait – “you don’t want to end up like that, do you? soon she won’t even be able to shower alone.” I silently nod and comment to myself that I would never be stupid enough to live that long, aeons past prime and diving straight into her grotesque stupidity. I’ll never be so dumb as to anchor myself to this godforsaken earth with children and a husband either. I’ll die a decrepit old spinster with art living at my side, and beautiful travels with which to lose myself to nostalgia in. It occurs to me that I may not be quite smart or brave enough to do the things I think I will. I may not have the competency and the nerve to live alone in the woods or in South America or in France. I haven’t quite gotten around to trying yet (oh procrastination, warm me in your bosom for just five more minutes), but I imagine, with the calmness of a junkie, that I’ll get around to it any minute now. I also like to daydream that the laundry does itself, but therein lies the problem. I DONT WANT LAUNDRY TO DO NOR LIFEHACKS WITH WHICH TO CONQUER THE WEEKLY CHORES WITH. I don’t want chores or weekly maintenance habits. I don’t want that well balanced lifestyle with time for gym breaks and work and hey! even creativity once a month. I want the artists life! I want the bohemian struggle! I want to constantly be fighting for the uncomfortable wormhole I find the solitude to create in. I could live out of my car, though it’d have to be somewhere far more temperate – ah, dash the whole idea, while I’m at it. I feel an itching all of a sudden to set out in my personal legend. I’ve had no memorable dreams with whispering children in them, however, by which to know what that might be. So, God. Universe. Path. Consider this my informal invitation to GIVE ME A FUCKING SIGN AND SHIP ME THE DIRECTION I’M GOIN IN, cause I can’t take much more monotony, or society for that matter. I can’t stand acting okay towards all my old friends that stayed in college. I almost feel bad when it works, when they come out thinking I’ve got it made with my freedom and my pitiful home life and discount boyfriend and romantic view of my own depression, when really I’m only that person half the time. The ugly twin always has the last laugh, when whatever old friend departs, marveling at how well I’m doing, and I’m stuck with the knowledge of being the greatest and saddest actress on earth, because I could fool nobodies, slaves and clones into the same romanticized ruin I fool myself with half the time.
I want to skip town. Want to drive to New Orleans and then some. Want to get holed up in Mexico. But first I have to know how to fight, to defend myself from the rapists whose eyes sliver all over my body in suburban Middletown diners. Have to know how to survive in the wild and find water and build a fire and sustain myself off leaves and roots and pawpaws when they’re in season. I probably need a dog too. But the only dog for me is a hound and they’d be no good in the wild. At the chance of a wild brutish animal attack, it’s go scampering off into the opposite direction, with its short legs tripping over its disproportionately extended earlobes, and I’d be left to reason with the chaos of nature. And see, I’d be fine with this, but the process is so painstaking. I need a crash course. I need all the knowledge of the universe NOW, not in a year. I’m restless and tired and scratching to jump out of my flesh. Any excuse to abandon the “love of my life” that cares only for self pity and hedonistic egotism. Barf. He’s not getting better, and I’ll only rot along with him the longer I stay in this fickle situation. But the alternative is so dumb too. Bringing a blood hound to the wilderness is like bringing a weeping willow to a waterfall. The sentiment was nice, but it doesn’t quite fit the role. They’re getting
Old Yeller to fill the part anyhow. Damn.