I had barely woken up. I can't sleep past nine these days, and I had just turned over to look at the clock when my phone rang. I took a moment to look at the number and the time on the face of my phone. Unidentified number. 8:00.
I looked back at my alarm clock. 9:03. Daylight Losing has begun. "Hello?"
"Hi Sweetheart. It's Mom."
I haven't spoken to my mom in nearly 3 weeks, which is longer than we've gone without talking to each other for a long time. Probably since I first moved out and was having a vicious independent streak. My mom is my connection to the world that truely matters. It's sad to say that I just barely got my sisters' telephone numbers, and that I was only out of touch with mom because I don't know my Aunt's or Grandmother's numbers. My mother fills me in on all the details and I adjust my Family-Energy appropriately. I'm surrounded by strangers without her. (My dad is home, but he ignores the telephone. Their voicemail has been full for a week and a half. )
"Mom, I've been trying to call everyone, I left a message at T's house and I called what I thought was V's number but..."
"Honey, it's okay. Have you talked to your dad? Silly question, I suppose."
My proceeded to tell me a story of love, and pain, and death. She told me a story of heroism, and extreme bravery, miracles, clarvoiance, hallucination and hurt. She told me a true story about my family. Miracle Milk, accurate perception of one's own death, washing machines by magic. A raging bull steadied by the hand of a small elf, flights in the night and a young man standing up against his fear for his mother's safety.
My favorite uncle has passed. It was difficult and courageous.
When your first two classes are cancelled for unrelated reasons, it's practically illegal to go to the third, right?
The band continues to play on. At full volume. Sitting next to me in bed.
I've taken to an excessive amount of self-converstion. Any given moment finds me and myself feverishly talking ourselves in and out of things. Settling ourselves down because we're upset over nothing. Getting involved in debates and feeling satisfied when one of us wins.
I should note that -personally- this isn't a bad thing. I enjoy talking to myself. I feel stronger creatively, and generally more confident when I spend time verbalizing my thoughts to an audience of my own likes and dislikes, praises and criticisms. It's just that....
Well. If I talked myself out of talking to myself once, it was probably for a reason. It was probably because myself and I were isolating others with our behavior. It was probably because I was referring to myself as 'us'. And, when it comes to characteristics that distance one from others, it's important to pick your battles.
I'm also returning to my place as the teeth-grinding and constant-humming master. This leads me to believe that Crazy Always Returns. No matter how uncrazy you get yourself, you can always crazy up again.
So I suppose it's time to re-evaluate what crazy is Good Crazy and what crazy is 'get picked up for shoplifting toothpicks' crazy.
I finished a fantastic amount of schoolwork this afternoon, so I'm taking a moment to wax about molecules.
Okay wheat cracker. you be C.
Glass of water, you be H. (Mostly.)
```H```
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H--C--H
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```H```
I just drew you a portrait of you and me and everybody. You and me and everybody's dog. You and me and your dinner. I drew you a picture of birds flying and a man drowning and mushrooms growing on a root. Me and You and Mushrooms.
Plants, you keep respirating and so will I. If I had leaves for limbs, I'd loose 'em.
Dear Pacific Northwest.
You have to go see this.
I loved it, not because everyone I love, have loved, and perhaps will ever love was involved with it; I loved it because it was haunting and wild and joyful, and I'm pretty sure my heart was larger in diameter when it was over.
and now? lost keys.
These minor inconveniences -particularly losing things- make me crazy. Make me cry a little bit. Particularly when I haven't eaten and all the money and food are inside the apartment, mocking me with their unattainability. Then I might cry a little more than a little.
And will the locksmith that cut the key in the first place cut you a new one? Even if you bring a copy of your lease, a postmarked piece of mail, and your ID?
Fuck no. Fuck no he won't. And he LOVES not doing it.
Cake has started calling me his "stern little loverpants" because my Scowl of Thought and Concern has been popping up even at the most relaxing of times. 2 research papers and an exam next week with a bank account in the double digits. Cut way, way down on the hula-hooping and ___, and suddenly I remember what a nervous person I used to be.
If it's important, expensive, or capable of getting me kicked out of school, I've lost it this week.
Fortunately, it's been a super-fun cycle of lose backpack-find backpack-lose biology book-find biology book-lose wallet-find wallet-lose purse with ____ in it-find purse with _____ still in it. (phew.) I think the stress gave me a cold.
It's the end of week 2, and I think I'm doing a fair job of being a good student. I've had a few mishaps, but most of the reading is done, most of the research topics are selected, and most of the hypothesizing has been proven or proven false.
We made 'life maps' (collages) in Communications this week. Apparently, all dudes want money, and ladies want to get married. I, apparently, want to have kids, but with some totally unspecified dude. (No, wait. Must love nature. Mustn't be atheist. Must be enthusiastic. Mustn't be creepy.) I think I'm going to marry Tiny. And I'd better hurry up, because it's the gettin hitched season. I'm going to another wedding this weekend. My lovely friends Paul and Jen are settling in and making a family. I can't wait to meet Paulifer when he/she comes out of there.
all this wedding makes me feel strangely lonely.