23:56 - August 02, 2003 phantom gnats
So picture this.
You're climbing indoors. And everyone who walks into the club, when asked how the weather is outside, replies, 'gnatty'. You don't pay much attention. But when Mike goes outside to feed the meter for your car, he comes in going 'sweet Jesus, it's the plague.' And then Camille, who's disappeared for an hour to talk to the other Mike on her cell phone comes upstairs going, 'I couldn't even go outside because of the fucking bugs...'
Mike wants to drive the two blocks to Pineyard because he doesn't want to go through the gnats. He says swarms of them are hanging in the air, swarming (as swarms are wont to do) in every direction but down, like rain. When we get to the plate glass doors, I see nothing. He says, 'wait.' I wait. I push open the doors. I see nothing. He says, 'they're not as bad, I guess.' But I see nothing.
I say, 'You guys are so full of shit.'
We get in the car, we drive down Benson, where I still see nothing. Nothing except a group of girls waiting to cross the street with their sweaters over their mouths. I turn the corner, and Clark is filled with people swatting wildly, hands clamped over their faces, a few with umbrellas spread in front of them.
I see nothing.
Mike says, 'Oh God, they're back.'
A family stands at the light at Davis wearing jackets tied around their heads, breathing through the cotton. I see that, but I still see nothing.
We get into Pineyard, and the hostess runs over immediately. 'Did you see the flies??' she asks, waving her arms around to illustrate. I look back out the window and the air and the sky are as clear a blue as they could be.
I don't understand. They exist to everyone else. But they're phantom gnats, to me.
I kept thinking, 'I'm dreaming or I've gone crazy.'
00:08 - August 02, 2003 dream fragment
This fragment of a dream comes back to me as I wake up, seeps slowly into my consciousness over the day, makes my mind glaze over to the extent that I don't hear Ted going on and on about the invention dates of all these measuring devices, even though I'm interested, I am.
In this dream, we have just gotten back to school, and we're taking dance lessons, we're riding motorcycles doubleback, and walking through the forest, and eating hotdogs and marching in the welcome back picnic parade, and I find myself in his room, in front of his computer, where he has written to me, though whether he had any intent of my reading it or not is unclear...... he has written: 'All the world is on fire. My horses, they have died, my uncle, he has disappeared, my friends, they have been taken. All the world is fading, it is flaming, and I was thinking, maybe you and I could burn together.'
I just keep reading it and a twinge starts in my back, creeps up my shoulder. I can't figure out if it's a love letter or an invitation for joint suicide.
01:42 - July 30, 2003 nonsensical, in that way...
So I asked her, 'Do you ever wish you could make yourself think like you're high even when you're not high?'
I wish I could. It's not even a matter of sober not being good enough, it's a matter of the wonder of being able to make everything interesting and worthwhile and beautiful, and even sensical, or nonsensical in that way that makes it delicious. I don't want to glorify the drug as the only way of being able to think like that, because I think, and I hope, that I can train my brain to do it whenever I want it to. I'm working on it. I'm working on thinking about things I normally wouldn't think about because it doesn't warrant thinking, but really when you go close enough up it's fascinating. Most things are, really.
:whispers: 'If I squint my eyes right it looks like he's someone else.' (Is that a wish that he was someone else? Will he hear us and think that we're not satisfied with his company? Are we discluding him? His pants are bright...)
'It's dark and I can't really see him anymore, only his pants, swinging back and forth.' (Like some cartoon I read once, pants moving on their own, or maybe an invisible human within them.)
He's blocking the bridge. 'Push on his shoulder,' she says.
I push. It's sharp. 'It's sharp.'
'Push on it.'
'It's too sharp, it's too sharp to touch, it's too sharp to push.'
'Sharp..' gales of giggles.
My finger burns. 'My finger is on fire.' (It feels separate from the rest of me, on fire on the tip of my hand, better when I put it on cool metal, but still on fire. Despite the fire, I don't care.)
He comes back from swinging. 'Oh, he looks like himself again,' she says.'
'See, we were just noticing how you looked like someone else, and your pants were floating.' I see the AIM icon in my head, beheaded. He flails his legs (pants), quizically.
And so it goes. The trees are back in shadow. We walk home, barefoot in the street.
23:40 - July 27, 2003 at a loss
sometimes, i remember how hard it was to go without seeing him for a weekend. i remember once me being busy for a few days, at helpline and at parties and probably stoned and at andrew's most times i was even at the dorms at all, and on tuesday or wednesday i was walking down the hallway to the end so i could look in on the pigeons' nest on the outdoor stairwell, and as i was passing his door it flew open. he was on his way to the shower, but he caught me. 'i haven't seen you in SO LONG!' he exclaimed. 'come in and play the guitar with me, help me write this song. let me tell you about something amazing i just discovered.' it had been two days. he was bursting.
then i think about how i haven't seen him in over two months. what has happened to him? where has his mind been? what have his fingers conjured up on his upside-down guitar? i can't even imagine, and that throws me. when i see him, another month from now, i'm going to be at a loss.
00:56 - July 27, 2003 nothing but
this is what i couldn't find the words to say, not what i was too scared to say, or too selfless to say. these are the words that were still dripping in between the folds of my brain.
at least you can go to sleep each night without listening to each laboured breath ripping from your throat. at least you can sleep to the inside of the tent, away from the flap, at least you can begin to think about doing acid without your brain running away with what if i'm never the same what if i throw up what if i let me out in front of the wrong people what if i suffocate what if what if what if. at least you want new experiences, even if you're not having them. at least if the opportunities were to present themselves you'd take them.
this is not to dramatize my situation or to glorify yours, but just remember the things you take for granted that you call 'mundane', but are hard work for me too. you have more of a chance with strangers because you're pretty. you have that edge, without working for it. they catch on it despite themselves; it's society, it may not be your fault or your talent, but you have it, and you can use it. that counts, too. i can't overlook it like you can because you don't see it.
and the talking, the talking.... i cannot put words together for anyone but who i feel comfortable with. stringing words together IS a talent. communicating IS a talent. i can't do it. i try to mold to fit and i can't mold and can't fit and can't be individual, either.... i'm just a scorching silent daze, as i once put it in an english paper: the days i spent, scorching silent days. you are never silent. you are never unsure, at least outwardly. you are never awkward. i have that to contend with. in terms of everyday situations, i have to work harder than you ever seem to notice.
again, this is not a dramatization. this is nothing but the truth.
