|Blogs > rm_TappyTibbins > Better Left Than Never|
I know you are, but what am I?
I know you are, but what am I?
Too long since my last blog. Birthday weekend and I am still in recovery. 9:30 at night, now. Monday, and I sit at home alone. Nobody I call is at home and my phone doesn't ring, so I sit and compose this blog to you, my dear reader. I light a cigarette and wonder what I could say that might be interesting. The cigarette tastes bad and the words don't come.
My days are sliding away in silent, melancholic madness. I smile at the right times, go to work, to all the right functions. I play and flirt and dress up for no one in particular. At times I lie in bed in the afternoon and wonder why I have nothing else to do. I could read great works of literature or learn a new language. I could...
My phone rings, my father. He calls to say nothing, but in his trivialities I hear him telling me he loves me. We talk for a few minutes, but the conversation becomes dull and we let it go. My cigarette is finished, and still the words don't come.
When I am at home alone I feel haunted by memories. Not of people or places or times or any specific *, but rather the whole of my experience presents itself to me as one overbearing emotion. I feel real and alive and vibrant, but the past feels dead, the spirit of a loved one long since passed away and looking at me reproachfully from beyond the grave. I think that perhaps I am being over-dramatic, but the feeling remains. I long to Love again(?).
End of the paragraph and I half expect my phone to ring again, but I suppose that life doesn't work that way.
Three minutes pass from the last sentence to this one. I've been trying to think of something funny to say to compensate for the dreadful and cliched weariness of the last few paragraphs.
Oh well. So much for humor.
This is as close to "news from home" as I get, and even this is caricature; smoke and mirrors. I think that my mind might be slipping. I'm finding it harder and harder to talk to people. When I try, they seem to get a strange look in their eye. So I stop talking, and they don't seem to mind. Thank god for my friends. They love me out of habit and don't seem to mind too much when I talk. Of course, my phone never rings either...
As though to give the lie to my thoughts, the phone rings. Farah. I guess life is like that sometimes. Short conversation. Neither of us has anything to say to each other. I hope she hears in my trivialities how much I still love her. How much. I almost wish the phone had stayed silent. I'd rid myself of it completely if it didn't represent the constant hope of interruption. Disembodied voices. The Ghost Machine.
Another cigarette. I'm smoking to much, but I don't care. Cigarettes and alcohol may be my crutches, but if you're broken, crutches help you stand. That's why hospitals give them out. Crutches, not cigarettes.
Oops. Was that humor?
Bloody phone wont stop now. Crystal. She's in town, apparently. Wants to pick me up and go for a drink. I guess I need to get dressed.
Next: Walt Whitman's Brain
5/17/2005 5:23 pm
You write how I feel most days. Crutches are trecherous sometimes so be careful how you stand with them.|
5/19/2005 12:35 pm
i love your wry comment about crutches ... i love your wry humour as an escape from the humdrummity ... stywe piel! btw... what are you drinking? wild turkey?|
p.s. stywe piel is and afrikaans phrase for "cheers"; it also translates directly as "hard on"...