I did all I could. I slept for days in hopes of never waking up. I buried myself in work on the off-chance that my mind would grow numb enough to forget her. My roommate was worried that I listened constantly to The Cure and never left my room.

That was a long time ago. I've moved on, or so I tell myself. The animosity has faded, and we've led cordial lives. Sometimes I think that it never happened.

I didn't think it mattered anymore until recently. I was recently at my current favoured club, hanging out with friends, enjoying new music, and fighting off the urge to sleep. There was The Pogues, Covenant, De/Vision. There was also Peter Murphy, and that's when it struck me. Looking over the dance floor, I saw her again, dancing with her boyfriend of many years. He and I are friends now, and honestly, it's hard to imagine them as separate. But just for a moment, I thought: That was almost me.

I've never felt so ill in my life.

Today is the second anniversary of the death of Lisa. It's going to be a shitty day, I can just tell. Nothing can possibly go right today.

Details on the day to follow as they happen.

Well, we're off to a poor start indeed - I can't sleep. This does not bode well for the rest of the day, or the week for that matter.

Today is an absolutely disgusting day, weather-wise. It's cold and drizzly. Yuck. Depressing weather, indeed. Plus, I'm a bit hung over from all that drinking I did last night. Alone.

Well, I've been for my morning run, and I've had breakfast, and those two things both went without any catatstrophe.. Perhaps there's hope for today after all...

Work has been fun so far. Nothing difficult, nothing involving any thought, just mindless soldering. Perfect for today, methinks. A day without classes is exactly what I needed.

Whoops. Was going to node bitter, and discharge some dread, but my straw might be the one that breaks the Bear's back, and perhaps toxic sludge is not what you want to wade through, defenceless one. I feel full of that, but will grope around for a blessing to count.

    I don't know how your eyes are working, but as I sit here sieving for blessings, I am aware that mine are working fine. That's a blessing old Polish babas would remind me to count. I have the everything classic theme, water settings--that light purple is a nice color. In the crayon box, it would be something like "periwinkle", which is a word that if I could only remember how lovely it sounds to me now would solve all my problems, forever. Why can't I bottle my blood at this moment and synthesize whatever chemicals are bringing on this feeling of relief? So different from how I set out to node. Did I do this?
    I am remembering (I can feel my body remembering) a lesson I once learned (thanks, universe) about beauty. Remembering is a physical sensation to me now, thanks to several days of dodgy sleep. Can it always be like this?
    • Beauty is built in. It seems frivolous, but it's essential. The beetle is in love with its ball of dung, would choose it over a ripe strawberry or a glass of champagne.
      • My mother rubbed her nose against me when I was a baby, preferring my scent to that of flowers. Breathing feels good to me, it's rewarding, it can be an ecstatic experience given drugs, or sleeplessness, or good smelling air, or the right frame of mind. It's all a set-up. It feels good by design; nature uses carrots more than sticks.
        • We have little choice in the matter. Sensuality is inevitable. That dog walking down the Oakland sidewalk last night chose the only unpaved spot for hundreds of yards around to stop, sniff and pee. Why that spot? Why does a dog choose? I think "instinct" is a miserly, dismissive word for "pleasure".

I just got my postcard from Massachusetts signed by the FAMOUS ideath!

It's a purty, purty postcard.

A retro 1950s black-and-white photo depicts a woman smiling happily and holding up her cat. The caption says: "Eat anything with false teeth".

On the back, ideath has written: "To the team - I y a des choses quelquefois qui sont trop incroyable. Je ne comprends pas d'espagnol. Bien, bien, tout c'est assez pourmoi. Cheerio! -- ideath"

Translation? "There are some things sometimes which are too incredible. I don't understand Spanish. Good, good, Everything is enough for me. B'Bye!"
I think hamster bong is right... there is something in the wind today.

The morning started out ok, as good as one can be, but took a left turn rather quickly. A stray thought jarred loose some memories, and I spent the morning unable to let them settle again. I tried noding a broken heart never heals, to see if expressing them might help. I'm not sure if it has, but I think the support offered by fellow noders (and I am so sorry if I made anyone else cry) has given me some strength again.

I hope that I don't spend the day reliving past hurts, as there are other things to do. Cleaning must be started tonight, in preparation for the upcoming visit from some family members - I don't want them to see the mess the place is (though we've started packing for the move, so we do have an excuse)...

I just got my postcard from Massachusetts signed by the FAMOUS ideath!

This is, without a doubt, the best postcard I have ever received.


The front depicts a thin man with an unusually large belt buckle. He sports a goatee, long hair (which has been pulled back into ponytail) and a surprising number of facial tattoos: a cobra on his forehead, four lightning bolts on his cheek and a trail of three tears running down from his left eye. He also appears to have the letters L-O-V-E and H-A-T-E tattooed onto his knuckles for some reason; finally, as if that wasn't strange enough, he also holds a sign that says:

I HAVE BEEN CERTIFIED AS MILDLY INSANE!¹.


ideath writes:
    this man has stolen
    your sign.
    so, of course, i killed
    him
    .
    can i keep the sign?


¹ The photograph is attributed to Gillian Wearing and comes from what I can only assume is a collection entitled Signs that say what you want them to say and not signs that say what someone else wants you to say, 1992-1993.
Work, whatever.

The elevator took me up four floors to find a boy who wasn't there. Down again and elevator opened on ground floor where there was the boy I was after, waiting to pounce me. Dan is a good hugger, his shoulders are strong and he waltzed me around.

Adrienne Rich poetry reading at Emory.
She read for over an hour. In between poems there a silence in which you could hear people letting out their breath. When she was done, we all stood up without waiting to see if anyone else was going to stand up. It was understood. All she had brought us were her words, and that was enormous, and there was a way to thank her thunderously, and we did.

Good to see beautiful Laura Currey. She says Pebbles has gone schizophrenic, as in, not a joke, it runs in her family anyway and Paul went to see her and she hadn't bathed or eaten in days and is hallucinating and things are looking not so good. I am afraid to tell edebroux about it; she will just worry from across the globe.

Good to see Dr. Taylor and her date, cute smiling bearded talker Lyle. I confessed to driving past her walking her dog on the way home from work one day and not stopping to talk to her. She of course said something about not questioning our impulses and stopping the car probably would have put me in mortal danger or something. She's a kook.

Good to see Dan. Back to his dorm after poetry. Up late. Scattered quick talk, nothing in too much depth, but important things. People who can't make room for other people. Holding grudges. Cheating in high school. Words. Grad school, Douglas Coupland, learning to make yourself open to true conversation, what am I going to do with my life? When really, everything we were saying was it's been too long. you have good things to say. let's be friends again.

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