Wreck of the Day

Humidity sitting in my joints. A most difficult weekend in ways. Mom visited. We attended a private poetry reading at friends' house. It was unlike any other reading I've ever attended. Spiritual. Poems about the dead. Poems about the living. Letters to the living from the dead. Pets put down. Mothers hanging on. Guilt. Regret. Anger. Sitting there alone would've been tough, with my mother beside me it took everything in me not to flee the room. It was like Dusty and Grandad and Grammie all reaching out from their graves at the same time, summoned by John Lennon. All the pain of the past couple of years in the same room. Overwhelming.

Mom went home this afternoon. Not before she cleaned my house, killed spiders, bought me food and beverage. I insist I'm okay. I tell her I don't need anything. I'm hardly fading away to nothing. Still. She thinks I don't have enough groceries.

Last night I dreamed about my own Robert Redford. In the dream he scolded me for putting my nose where it didn't belong. Words cut into my skin like only his ever could. Usually I would take the lashing in silent shame masked as indifference. Sometimes I would fight back, cutting deeper and leaving bigger scars on his skin with my own pointy daggers. Last night I listened in silence and just when he reached the end of his patience, becoming so disgusted with my silent indifference that he would just walk away, just as he turned to storm off, I collapsed in a sobbing heap at his feet, admitting my selfishness and begging forgiveness. I woke with the incredible urge to write a letter. I haven't.

With the moon so close to full, my emotions can't be trusted. Nothing I think may be real. I'm beyond a basketcase tonight.

Mood: a caged animal
Drinking: rooibos
Listening To: wind in the treetops and crows cawing in darkness (why? I've never heard birds making suck a ruckus so late before) and Sheryl Crow, C'mon C'mon
Hair: thick