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More dreams, twisted sheets, and explosive bed hair in the mirror... very Flop Of Seagulls. Dreams about throngs of people covering the highway, that part as I approach, like I'm a Va State Trooper. Reaching the top of a rise in the road, which turns out to be an overpass, there are dazed people crying, surrounding a flag-draped coffin. A pallbearer turns to shake my hand... and it's a roommate I haven't seen in over a decade. Or two. Then, I wake, with that damned Hank Thompson song guiding me back to consciousness... Cast A Lonesome Shadow. That one just won't quit. If I had drugs today, I'd have taken them. A nervous-fucking-wreck, for no immediate reason. Too much alone-time. Too-strong coffee on an empty stomach. Reading the Washington Post is never a great boost to calm, either... even if you avoid the Metro section. Plus, reading the review of the new book Running With Scissors... also, not good. I think if you keep on the subject of how fucked up things are, that they will be. Ad Nauseum. A good theme to remember, with the following in mind. || | | | | | | | | _________________________________________________________________________Not for the easily bored. Sunday night: I really don't know what started the whole thing. Way too much activity in the hot sun, for sure... leaving me dislocated when I finally stumbled through the house. I crossed the livingroom with a liter of water, where Miss Jane had been for most of the afternoon (immersed in two Sunday papers and the TV), and made my way to the front porch to regain my wits. And wonder if the two gallons of water would ever come out, conventionally. Like every evening, she asked me what I wanted for dinner... like every evening, she drove to the store. I stayed behind to scour off the crud. When she returned, and immediately set about frying up some burgers... you could feel the atmosphere thicken. Like the calm before the storm. Just as I sat down to take the first bite, I noticed her looking at me. I asked, "what's up?" Then I found out. Everything fucked up that ever happened in her life. Disappointment in me that nothing seems to be going anywhere. Disappointment that she has no ususual skills or talents, nothing that other people take notice of. Disappointment that I haven't done more to help her find her brother (the one who left his last two wives and children destitute). Unhappiness that I think that her life should be defined by going back to work... (when I really believe that she needs to get out of the house and live). Despair that she can't bring her parents back to life (her adoptive ones). That she's holding me back. Her age. Her three previous marriages. I spent the first part of my life being the peacemaker in drunken battles between my mother and her various adversaries... like my brother, grandmother, her alcoholic cousin and mentor, and "the Man." So I know better than to bait someone when they're about to go off. But no measured reasoning had effect, and eventually I began to see red. And I remembered... ...quitting the last band I was in, rather than to hear complaints about all of the time wasted and her dislike of the rehearsals she sat in on. ...slacking off of my artwork when her fosterhome daughter decided to come to live with us, out of the blue. In my drawing room. And required a car. And tuition for high school, so she could graduate in C'Ville with her friends. And tuition for college. ...her irritated silences in the studio at the radio station. ...the three back-to-back trips to Ohio when her parents passed away, a month from each other. And the sale. And the Oily lawyers and executors. Who she still will not pressure into bringing things to a close. And so much more that has been festering between us to far too long... because I cannot get her to talk to me. Her reply... " I just don't care, anymore." The hassles of getting the property in order, so I can see the reality of building... " I just don't care anymore." "Do you want us to continue together?" "I don't know." And then she walks away. I have alway believed that you should never leave an argument until it's resolved. And never sleep on it. There, too, we are different. Two days later... in her voice on the phone, its as if it never happened. But... oh, yes. And I have to ask myself... do I suck it up, and blame it on PMS, or menopause, or paranoia? Do I show understanding, forever, regardless, while she hides from her suspicions of the world.? Is this being pussywhipped, when sex has dried up to a mere handful of times a year... because she "just has no interest, anymore." And the devil on the other shoulder is saying... cut all of the stuff in half--and GO! Like I said before... this is catharsis. And bandwidth prevents more detail than this already monopolizes. Don't think this has anything to do with the dreams, do you? |
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