Monday, June 07, 2004


If I was a little more zen, I’d have married here. And been happy, funny thing is. I’d have kept that torch in her going strong, we’d have laughed and I’d have talked talked talked and she’d have laughed and teased and gone wide-eyed and teased me for talking past her and it would have been alright.
Instead, I’d have gone…slowly…subtly…not like in a movie but certainly slowly…subtly…bitter. Little curtailing of happinesses, things I’d get elsewhere. Stop talking like that cuz she’ll just not get it and it’s not worth a ten minute explanation and.
fuck. but here you are. if that was something, some muscle, I could just relax, I’d do it now. Take her back, take her in, find that place.
But fuck. Up against my own personal walls, those places I could only get beyond if it was my fulltime job, and maybe not even then. So I’d go bitter, bit by by and never so. But bitter. Fuck. And fuck that.

and yet it still feels selfish. I could be pretty happy, I think. happy, if you go comparative. but I won’t settle for that, and so…the way she was on that last phone call, when she crumbled, jeezus. crumbled. the way her voice went to that place, that place where you’re really terrified, really really terrified. where
god I can’t talk about that, about her voice running crying screaming outside wherever she was sound of traffic that girl who’s shy to kiss me in a crowd.
god that true voice of the lost.

So I decide I can’t risk settling and there is the damage. That voice. I was, during that call, holding myself back the other way, for a change: Holding myself back from taking her back, making it Alright, making any promise that would take her out of that solitude, terror, bewilderment.
So that feels selfish, really really fucking fuck you selfish.
So I have more wine, or spark another bowl.
Simple as that. Once or twice I’ve been pretty fucked up, just getting that way myself at night, and I’ve gone to take a piss and you know how it’s that moment when you’re swaying there that you realize, damn, I’m fucked up, well that’s happened a few times and usually it’s a bar with the sexual innuendo-clad posters or a friend’s house or there’s a party in the next room, but no, it’s just you smoking and drinking your way to a really good (swaying) buzz. And those times I see it, ever the watcher. If it was you, and you were telling me about it, I’d say, that’s supposed to be a warning sign, and I’d be only half joking, and I’d start thinking about your situation.


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