vermruka

I was back on the train. It was a newer train, one I didn’t like. It was grey and blue and new. Nothing rattled, nothing shook. I made my way to the dining car where they were beginning to seat for breakfast. A short man with a pointy chin and a purple blazer whisked his way up to me in the narrow aisle. “Hello, just you? Right this way.” I followed him and saw my table from a few feet back: redheaded family, mom facing me. two teenagers opposite, I figured them twins though no faces yet. I walked over and sat next to mom, whose name was probably Diane, with her pressed hair and thin smile. I greeted her briefly and turned to the twins.

Oh. One was a boy and one a girl though both their hair was cropped short, military style. “Well, hello!” I blurted, picking up my water glass in defense, taking a sip and feeling sick to my stomach that I’d employed the old tactic.

Well there they were, anyway. they were gorgeous. The boy’s eyes were hazel, a wonderful beautiful hazel and the girls were just plain brown. No, they were more than brown, they were orange. Yes, they were a fantastic orange, I saw it in the long glint of the sun as we passed the trees and fields and animals, past the houses. We rocked back and forth in the speeding car and waited for the waiter to come over. The family didn’t say much of anything, they didn’t really talk. The twins mumbled things to themselves and to each other but didn’t get too wild about it. I worried I was influencing this, that they were holding back for my benefit, or should it have been to my chagrin?

The twins seemed to have some special kind of relationship because I couldn’t understand a single word they were saying and it didn’t seem like their mother could, either, yet they didn’t seem to be missing anything that was coming sideways out of one another’s mouths. They kept their heads at down-tilts, terribly shy at my presence or perhaps they were always that way, and muttered things to each other almost inaudibly, unintelligibly. There was a lot of stifled laughter; this and any smiles were very tight and controlled and most sound was emitted through the nose in quiet rapid bursts. They both seemed painfully aware of and unhappy with their teeth, though in seeing what I could I found I wanted to see more. They were long and somewhat horse-like and frightfully crooked but they did a nice job of making their beautiful faces even more beautiful. I noticed they took great pains to avoid touching each other - for instance, when she asked him to hand her a packet of sugar from nearby the window he handed it to her daintily, the edge of it pinched between thumb and forefinger, and she plucked it away just as daintily but with intense focus behind it, almost cross-eyed in her intent to avoid contact with his hand. She tore open the sugar and began shaking small piles of the crystals into her palm and eating them.

The waiter was heading over, the same man who’d taken me to my seat. Mother seemed relieved to have the distraction. She, too, seemed uncomfortable at my being there and still hadn’t said a word to me. the waiter was in grouchier spirits than when I’d first encountered him and was grumbling under his breath about something. He took out his little pad and pencil hastily and began jotting something as he looked over his shoulder 3, maybe 4 times, in a nervous, erratic way. he looked at me when he finally asked: “are we ready?” his smile was also tight and controlled, though in irritation rather than self-consciousness.

I picked up the menu with a startled jerk, realizing I hadn’t so much as glanced at it. “Uh, yes,” I feigned. “I’ll have the uh … “ I quickly skimmed the half-dozen breakfast choices and decided on something traditional – eggs, pancakes, choice of meat. I chose bacon. When asked what kind of toast I’d be having I wondered if they had English muffins? He rolled his eyes snootily and then immediately seemed to regret it & tried to make up for it with a broader smile and a slight lean forward, looking at the menu with me, explaining what my options were. “You’ve got your choice of wheat, white or rye,” he explained as he cast another look over his shoulder. Something must have caught his eye - he lingered for a moment - and it was suddenly very comical. There he was, still hunched over, hand poised at the writing pad, looking down the aisle in his nervous way. “I’ll have rye,” I said. “Sounds better than an English muffin, actually.” He didn’t care. He absently scribbled my decision onto the paper as he trailed off, craning his neck in order to get a better look at something. It was funny, the way he went off so quickly. I had to laugh.

The twins liked that I was laughing. They both stopped very suddenly in what they were doing, freezing momentarily and looking at me, then looking at each other. Something had tickled them. The girl became almost bouncy, writhing in her seat for a moment and looking rather gleeful. She arranged her arms on the tabletop and stared at me directly, smiling. “Hello,” she said.

I reached across the table as if to grab her, then recoiled. What was I doing?

Mother was none the wiser, staring out the window looking sad.

The girl stared at me a moment longer and then settled back into her seat. She and her brother looked at each other quickly and tilted their heads down in precisely the same way and started to laugh. I was confused. I didn’t know why we couldn’t have a normal breakfast. Mother, quite frankly, was making me angry, selfishly turning herself away from us. It was at the point that I knew not what to do or say. Nothing would have seemed natural. I wanted desperately for the waiter to return with the food so that we could get on with it and have something else to focus on.

A petite woman eventually appeared with glasses of water for us. She was carrying two in each hand with her long jeweled fingers wrapping around them every which way. she tried to get mom’s attention in order to hand it to her personally but it didn’t happen, mom was still staring sadly out the window.

She surprised us all when she said, “Your water, ma’am.” Mom turned abruptly from her awful daydreaming and widened her eyes in horror.

“Thank you,” she said coldly, then took a long disgusting drink & turned back to the window.

The water woman was already tottering off to her next task and as she did, she was met by our waiter friend in the middle of the aisle. He had emerged from the staircase with an enormous tray of food and when he saw her heading in his direction he froze – not physically but mentally, you could see it in his face, his lips became drawn and pursed and his eyes locked. He was terrified, he was angry. I didn’t know what he was but she was obviously the focus of all of his bizarre energy. I heard her giggle as they brushed arms in their passage through the aisle and this positively infuriated him, though he was trying very hard to keep it at bay. He turned instinctively to follow her to the other end of the dining car but he was stuck, there was no following her. He shifted his grip on the tray from one hand to two and carried it sternly over to where we were sitting.

“Thank God,” said mother, and for a moment I empathized with her, which made me terribly unhappy.

He started unloading the plates one at a time. “Here you are,” he said to mom, getting her waffles with whipped cream and blueberries out of the way first.

I noticed he made brilliant eye contact with the daughter as he set her food in front of her. “Your omelette,” he said, and she looked up at him unwaveringly, neither of them dropping this contact until it was time for me to get mine.

The food looked surprisingly good. Portions were large, things looked well-seasoned. I wondered if they had a real kitchen somewhere rather than what I’d assumed would be a series of microwaves. Surprise, surprise, I’d been given an English muffin. “I found one,” the waiter said with a wicked sort of grin, and I couldn’t help but laugh again. “Well thank you,” I said sheepishly. “that was very nice of you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said cryptically, and before I could ask who it was I SHOULD be thanking -- there he went with the neck-craning again! Water woman was approaching, no doubt. He performed his signature trail-off down the aisle, fumbling for something in his pocket and ignoring a raised hand from a youngster against one of the windows who was probably dying for some ketchup or butter or another glass of milk. Just as he managed to get whatever it was he’d been digging for he popped open the door to the adjoining car and disappeared from view.

The four of us at the table began to eat. Mother sawed dutifully into her waffle and didn’t stop until it was arranged in piles of smaller pieces stacked atop one another. She smothered each pile in the whipped cream and berries and then ate them one at a time – huge piles, huge bites! Each time she took a bite her brow furrowed tighter and tighter. What was she thinking about? I couldn’t stop stealing glances at her, it was so awful. She chewed at an enormously fast pace, so fast it didn’t seem real. From the corner of my eye it may as well have been a movie-tape I was watching, one that was running endlessly on fast-forward. Her poor jaw! I thought to myself, mindlessly patting my own jaw in agonizing sympathy.

Thankfully the twins were quite normal in their eating habits and didn’t make any sort of fuss. I wondered how old they were. My first impression had told me they were teen-aged but there was something about the quality of their mannerisms which suggested perhaps mid-twenties. The movement of the boy’s hands, for instance, was too confident for anything as young as I’d supposed. As though to prove me correct he picked up his fork in his left hand and extended his index finger firmly down along the stem of it, flaring his arm and elbow off to the side in order to gain leverage. He bent his head studiously (which I’d seen before and was beginning to adore) and smirked when a gush of egg yolk suddenly bloomed around the fork’s prongs. His sister noticed and they began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. I felt stupid for asking anything at all, whatever they were doing was beautiful and should have been left well alone. They were kind in their response, however. The girl (without looking at me) said that it had reminded her of something, the egg yolk. At this the two of them began to laugh more robustly, setting their utensils down in order to enjoy the moment more fully. Mother was finished completely with her plate and turned away from the window to wanly regard them. Finally she spoke: “Eat your dinner.” She went back to the window.

There was a moment’s pause and then the twins laughed harder than they had at anything prior. Mother gave one barely-perceptible twitch back in their general direction and then resumed watching the cows go by. “This is breakfast,” said the twins in unison, and when the mother didn’t respond they seemed sad, if only for a moment. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to deal with the woman all of the time. I admired their tenacity. Perhaps this is why they seem so mature, I thought. Taking care of a wretched old woman their whole lives. It suddenly occurred to me to wonder where their father was. Father was no doubt a striking man – the only feature they seemed to have inherited from their mother was the red hair and perhaps the shape of the eyes, which is to say – round – no, spherical, like a fish. Yes, they protruded slightly, but not in a way that was unattractive, just enough to make them seem more alive than the rest of us; it afforded us the chance to really see their eyes at work, rotating in their skulls, such marvelous mechanisms.

I pushed my plate into the center of the table. It was mostly empty save for one lone scrap of the English muffin – an edge piece, black and burnt. It sad there looking sad and pathetic. I wasn’t surprised when mother reached for it and ate it without asking. All I could muster in response was a faint half scoff / cough. She didn’t notice. I sat there wondering what in hell had just happened. This had not been a normal breakfast. The way these things usually went is you walk in, they sit you down with a nice family or a nice couple of people riding solo just like you and everyone introduces themselves over a cup of coffee and you talk about where you’re headed and where you’ve been. You talk about how beautiful Montana is if you’re riding through Montana, you talk about how neat Chicago is if you’re going there. Speaking of which, it seemed we had left the state of Washington, perhaps long ago. There weren’t nearly as many evergreens and even the sky looked different, somehow. Less pensive. I mopped up the small mess I’d made on the tablecloth and rose to leave. I let a twenty dollar bill drift to the tabletop and nodded a vague goodbye to none of them in particular.

“Where are you going?” the boy asked. He actually seemed bothered that I was considering leaving so anonymously. I stood there awkwardly for a moment with my thighs pressed into the side of the table while the three of them looked at me. it was funny because each of their expressions were so different; mother was slightly quizzical, which I was starting to think was the foundation for all of her expressions; sister had her arms folded tightly into each other and was leaning forward, chin nearly on her plate, starting up at me with a goofy grin; brother raised his eyebrows questioningly and waited serenely for me to respond.

From the corner of my eye I saw a commotion at the other end of the car. It was our waiter. It was a confusing sight, I couldn’t really make out what was happening - he was struggling with something, that was certain, but I could only see the upper half of his body. It seemed he’d been coming up the stairs and was stopped short about two steps down by the water woman. He was leaning uncomfortably from the doorframe so that we could only see his outstretched arms and his shining head, which was red with frustration. Between them was an enormous white linen bag, which she kicked at lightly a few times, as if to say, “here, take care of this!” The bag was so large that there wasn’t any way for him to come into the aisle and get any sort of good grip on it – unless, of course, she’d back up and give him space – but there didn’t seem to be any chance of that. “I need this out of here NOW,” she said, and his arms immediately sprung into action, grasping at the oversized bundle ferociously. He muttered something angrily and then gave one hard pull to the bag and began dragging it down the steps – thump thump thump.

it's been almost a year since i moved to los angeles.

i was born here, you know. moved away when i was 5 but always carried around my small memories. tiny shadowed portraits, frozen glimpses. senses. scenes.

visited for the first time when i was 21 and couldn't believe it. couldn't believe how it made me FEEL. overwhelming stuff, all of the familiarity. the golden light, the timelessness, the endlessness of the landscape. the surreality. i realized i'd been dreaming about los angeles my whole life. it had shaped me in that way. in my dreams there were always yellow hills, rubber-necked trees, warm brown faces, impending doom. this IS an apocalyptic place, don't forget it.

and there i was, in dreamland. that's why i was so compelled to return, i felt as though every moment was a waking dream. i couldn't imagine anything more satisfying. i was completely convinced this was the place for me. so down i came.

last december. seems like it could have been ten years ago, now. i rode the train down for a week's time in order to meet my new roommate (agreed upon sight-unseen), to check out the house (same), to check out my neighborhood. to BE here. i just wanted to be here as much as possible.

the train ride was beautiful, full of crying and writing. i'd been miserable, in a way, that year in washington. lot of anxiety, little eating. argument and tirade after tirade. running down the street in the middle of the night, it sounds so stupid on paper.

train was 4 hours late but new roommate decided to wait - 2 o clock in the morning and he had to be up at 6 for work!! i was impressed. when we met he was kind in the face, soft-spoken, patient. i was happy.

i had fun that week. i dressed as fancy as i wanted to and took a lot of wandering walks and went to parties. the parties here are always strange. rarely have i met a host / hostess but there's always so much FOOD, so much BOOZE, so many people. so much marijuana, and good marijuana. it's easy to feel happy here, at least at first, at least when it's all-new. all the faces, all the hills. driving at night, computer-chip city. warm air and the right music and always something being offered to you, people seem so generous.

night before i got on the 2nd train, the one to take me back to washington (so i could collect my things and then move for GOOD), this new roommate of mine invited me out to dinner, said some friends of his would be joining us. and since every experience here is a good one, a weird one, a compelling one, i couldn't turn him down.

we picked up his friends. first one was a rotund adult-teenager named dave, you could smell the roleplayer in him from a mile away. nice enough, little overbearing. sneered at the music i'd chosen for the ride. very loud, very bearded. glittery earring. second to join was AL, a snooty and decadent faggot [self-proclaimed] who insisted upon the restaurant of HIS choice, an expensive thai joint on Sunset. we tried to compromise but he was anxious, insistent, hugging my headrest and demanding that he have his way, so we obliged him.

on the way, stopped at a red light, i saw a fabulous MURAL painted along the side of a building. psychedelic desert, almost. very well-done. purple cacti and winding skyline. i asked my roommate about it, pointed it out, told him i liked it. he said he thought he knew the artist, some guy named victor, he'd met him a few times.

we got to the restaurant, in the parking lot. it was a small one and everyone's driving in this town so there was nowhere for us to go. AL was ever-impatient in the back so we asked if he and dave'd like to go inside and grab us a table while we parked across the street. they said they would.

and i recognized the neighborhood, even the restaurant. hadn't been in it before but had eaten next door, during my 21-year-old visit, the one that had meant so much to me. i couldn't recognize too many spots in los angeles but i recognized that one. even the cafe we were pulling up to (open parking spot - finally!) -- i'd been there, too, also when i was 21. big purple-painted cuban place, CAFE TROPICAL. i'd loved it the first time around; came away with an eclair in a pink box that was the size of a football and twice as delicious.

and there i was in the passenger seat as my roommate parked right beside the place, one that had felt special to me even the first time. it was late at night, maybe 9 o clock. dark, because it was winter. and i was talking talking talking, probably telling him how much i loved it, and wasn't it funny that we'd ended up there?

and very suddenly there was, perfectly framed in my window, a MAN. and i knew immediately that i wouldn't be able to take my eyes off of him if i tried. i kept talking to my roommate as though nothing had happened, nothing was going on, but there was this FACE looking at me, a face that was also talking (to a willowy black man dressed in rags) as it stared, as it connected with mine. and there were the eyes, and they were saying something, and there was no turning back.

we got out of the car and - surprise! my roommate KNOWS the fellow, who, upon closer examination, was sitting there pencilling a marvelous sketch. he did it almost mindlessly, flicking perfect lines onto the page as though he'd done it a thousand times before and didn't need to look anymore. i watched the two of them shake hands in acknowledgement and then my roommate moved on to introduce himself to the african man.

i walked up to the table they shared and swung a wayward chair back into its proper spot. the man said to me, 'hello, i'm victor.' and i said, 'hi victor, i'm bernadette.' and then, without warning, i told him, 'you have a very appealing face.'

and he looked startled. we were at close range - him sitting and me towering over him, it seemed. i was no more than a foot from him, looking directly at him, directly into his eyes. i couldn't help it. and he said softly, 'thanks. so do you!' and then he laughed, and i laughed a little too, it sounded so silly. he meant it but it sounded so silly and so simple.

and we shook hands and there was something there, i knew there'd be more to come, but my roommate was calling out to me from the crosswalk so i runned to join him, feeling good and calm and confident, knowing victor-with-the-appealing-face was watching me, wondering about me, wanting to know me.

and that was the beginning. that was how it all started.

roseanna making nice / reaching out to strange ethiopian girl (sosena). opening door to her room, time to go to the doctor!, her gaunt and half-naked, silent sheepish grinning. with the doctor and he's impatient, in a hurry, i know this, but he compliments the color of her shirt (that's pretty) - examination commences, is frustrating to him but he maintains politeness. has to call her father mid-interview to get real answers. she's good at repeating words, hearing them once and sounding them back flawlessly ('hospitilization?' she asks) - she is sweet and compliant during physical exam, supremely innocent. everything all-new, thought about how things must look to her, given her lifestyle, here from ethiopia and fairly freshly. tested her reflexes and nothing happened, probed her elegant slender feet, her tender belly or non-belly. roseanna with packs of cards, old, smelling good and hopefully like her home, one deck orange with 'embroidered' strawberries, other blue-green with peacocks. us playing them, playing speed and gin rummy and slap jack. me asking her what her house looks like, she says it's dirty, cluttered, covered in rugs and blankets and THINGS, because of her mother. hint of resentment in her voice on word 'mother'. mom brought the cards in for her, per her request. i did her laundry, everything black or purple or dark green. bra 34B, would have guessed C, she needs a fitting. asking me what i typically do on my break - tell her i throw on my headphones and take a walk; 'if only i could do that with you'. her singing 'love me two times', great sultry voice. singing soft cell. having her listen to ethiopian jazz, she 'likes number 4'. me humming and her thinking i could hear the headphones; it sounded 'a lot like what she was listening to'. helpful with sosena, trying to teach her words and games (go fish). standing doorside while her in the shower, telling me i ought to be taking care of her (s) rather than chatting with her (r). asking me how many journals i have, what am i writing, she already wrote too much in her own today. me peeking at it, humorous opening line (i never like to look back at what i said - i mean wrote). 'let me see your hand' and then we pressed palms together, same size! - my friends tell me my hands look old - destiny following ericka around and laughing at her, delighted by everything she did or said. d commenting that she liked my shoes, patchwork clown leathers. got upset when i changed to sneakers. walked down hallywa in one pink sandal, one black, thought it was funny. roseanna suddenly farts during dinner, finds it hilarious. other girls find it hilarious. she asks joseph, 'are you gay? my friend thinks you are because of the way you dress'. j is silent, smiles tightly, awkward moment, then he leaves. silly teen boys calling one of them crackhead, shortened to CH. ericka listening to e-jazz and taking it immediately away, polite chuckle, 'not my thing,' she says. crying and moaning, fake-style, while on the phone with girlfriend, coming back into room and smiling.

i hadn't REALLY had a dream since moving to LA until last night / this morning.
well -- tiny ones here and there, i spose, but they're barely remembered and such a far cry from my
typical epic-epics that i don't even consider them real or worth mentioning.

i was then told that a nicotine patch would restore the capability, possibly / probably manifesting as a dreadful nightmare. 'i don't care,' i said, and demanded the damn patch. i was just desperate to know that the fucking dream portion of my brain was still intact, as, TO ME, it's (one of) the most important thing(s) about being alive.

so, i fell asleep w/ it on (probably bad) and didn't dream. woke up at 8 am and thought, 'what a rip', and then ... ripped it off. fell back asleep.

... and had the WORST nightmare!! the LONGEST! the most detailed! the most disturbing of all-time!

but it was SO BEAUTIFUL AND I'M SO HAPPY. after i awoke from it i grabbed for my new digital tape recorder and recorded a solid 30 minutes of uninterrupted speech about it; i think i remembered and documented every bit, right down to the emotions/ thoughts i was experiencing as the character in my own dream, which i typically forget to capture or just don't bother capturing. (yeah, tape recording the shit is astronomically more efficacious than writing, which takes too long).

i'm about to enjoy a large salad of:

green leaf
iceberg
bell pepper
roma
cucumber
sliced BEETS
sunflower seeds
vinaigrette

and i'm gonna wash it down with an avocado shake

sounds weird, maybe even gross, but it won't be.

She was the kind of eccentric old woman who would never agree with you. You'd look to her for camaraderie or some degree of understanding and she'd shut you out with her keen heather eyes, her blanket of grey hair.

Quick-moving and light on her feet, she worked to clear away some half-finished artwork from the kitchen table, what looked to be the start of drawing. She grabbed a handful of scattered colored pencils, forming them into a bundle and speedily snapping a rubber band around them. She shoved them into a nearby drawer and rested the paper on top of the refrigerator.

"Welcome to my home," she said, filling a tea kettle from the tap. I watched as she deftly swung two matching cups from the shelf in front of her and placed them side-by-side on the counter. Her breasts were heavy under a gauzy white blouse and I looked at them while she found the spoons and the sugar and the cream.

"Any for you?" she asked, her face in profile. She raised one eyebrow, twitching the eye toward me as though she wanted to turn, but didn't. She gestured to the silver pot of milk, probably fresh.

I declined, but asked if she had anything to eat. I felt quiet and young, too young. I looked at the tiny curtains over the window behind the sink, with strawberries embroidered along the edges. Swirly connecting vines. The red of the berries had become pink and threadbare - only the idea of the fruit still lingered in some places - but the green remained bright, as though sewn in that morning.

"Angel food cake," she said, uncovering a large mound of it and tearing me a slice with her hand. I liked that. She put it on a plate and gave it to me.

I began eating it right away, also using my hands. "Thanks for having me over," I said between bites. The cake was a bit stale, probably two days old by the taste of it, but it had come from her kitchen, from her warped old cake pan, so to me it was a rare and delicious treat, the best I'd ever had.

"You told me you needed help," she said practically, and I remembered that she wasn't a kid anymore. She didn't play games to make friends, she just made them.

I couldn't look her in the eye for a minute or two after that. "Yes, I do," I said slowly, my head down in the plate somewhere. I listened to her banging around in one of the cabinets, doing what I figured was rearranging things that didn't need rearranged. The kettle whistled for a long time before she reached over to turn it off.

* * *

I left through the backdoor quietly. I couldn't decide if I felt better or worse. I was high from being around another person, being in a new house, smelling her smells. But now I had new uncertainties to dwell on. Had she seen me as cryptic and strange, possibly intrusive? I tried to convince myself otherwise, that to her I was a fresh and interesting creature worth inviting to her table. But we hadn't shared much. I wondered if it was possible that I could feel emptier coming out than I had going in, but the evidence was there. I still just didn't feel right.

I stood at the edge of her yard and looked back at the house. A plastic sunflower stuck in the ground was spinning frantically, caught in a strong gust of wind, and then it began to rain. I was soaked by the time I made it to her patio.

"Oh, no," she said, craning her fluffy head from the crack in the door and looking toward the blackened sky. "I didn't see this coming," she said, and she was right - the rest of the day had been as quiet and blue as a sleeping infant. She stepped back to allow my re-entry into the kitchen and then quickly slid the glass door closed.

"I'm just going to grab a jacket," she called as she went into the living room, throwing on one of her many hats and picking up a ring of keys. We walked to the front door and left together.

"You forgot your coat," I shouted over the drum of the water, the slick sound of cars racing by. She yelled to me that it was in her backseat, and I handed it up to her once I was safely there.

"Am I your chauffeur?" she asked, her eyes appearing in the rearview mirror. I sensed resentment in her voice but then she smiled, I could tell by the lines in her skin. "I forgot to wear my bowtie," she laughed, spinning the wheel fluidly, her hair a full skirt floating back and forth as she waited for the traffic.

The ride was brief. I was disappointed when we jostled down my driveway, passing under the canopy of trees and causing, for a moment, the raindrops on the windshield to become large and heavy. I began to gather my things, putting my pencil back into my bag, my pen. I'd wanted to write something down back there but I didn't have a piece of paper. When everything was in its place I set the bag definitively in the center of my lap, hands folded like a debutante. I thought about the two of us doing this every day, riding in a car together, listening to the radio. I imagined inviting her into my home and sitting on the couch with her. We could fold towels together, talk about sewing something, sew something.

I slid toward the door and put my hand on the handle, ready to pull it open.

* * *

I waited until she was completely out of sight before I walked around to the side of the house and crawled through my bedroom window. I didn't want her to know that I couldn't find my house key, that I hadn't seen it in over a week. As I slid in, my back scraping thickly against the sill, I looked for the tiny camera that i'd nestled in the peak of the A-frame, beneath the roof's overhang. It was still there.

In the room it was dark and messy, just as I'd left it. The towel from my shower was lying on the bed, still damp. There were clothes everywhere. It was a sad scene, really - the aftermath of my giddy preparation. You could sense the hopefulness in the stack of shirts draped over the back of the chair, still on their hangers.

In a corner across from the bed was a television, its screen coated in dust. With it, I could monitor what my tiny camera was seeing. I could watch for things. I turned it on and rewound the tape that had been going since I'd left and when I saw motion, I pushed play. The black and white image of my neighbor appeared on the screen. He walked from his back door and put a full, tied-off plastic bag into my garbage can. I stared at the screen for several moments after he disappeared. Everything was so still that I almost forgot what I was watching until I saw the same neighbor re-enter the frame. He did it quickly this time, looking around a bit as he crossed the lawn between our houses. He lifted the lid of the can for the second time and tore open his bag so that he could get at something in it. He rooted around for awhile and then his hand emerged with a piece of paper, which he flattened against his chest, read, and then stuck into his pocket.

I fast-forwarded until the tape ran out. Nothing else happened, there was no more footage. I went to the window and looked down at the grass. I felt disappointed - oddly, it was the same sort of disappointment I'd get when my mother would read my diary, or what she'd always called my diary. I eventually started bringing it to school with me, but two weeks into that bright idea and I'd left it on the backseat of some boy's car. and he really had been 'just some boy', I don't know why I was in that car in the first place. But one day he'd shown up at my house, driving right up onto my parents' front lawn and parking. He'd come out and stood by the hood, leaning on it, and there was my tiny book, there in his hand. He'd cupped it casually while he talked to me, as though it belonged to him.

"You left this in my backseat," he said, smiling so wide that I knew he must have read every word. If it had been anyone else I might not have cared, but it was some no-name, a scrawny kid with metal cluttering his mouth (it got in the way when we kissed, I worried that I'd cut my tongue and have to go to the emergency room) and the sort of ultra-short, bitten nails that left a half-moon of flesh squeezing painfully out at the top.

I asked him if he read it and he said no.

He walked to the driver's side of the car and actually hopped through the window, legs first. I couldn't believe it, but he did. Like a true asshole. He showed me his mess of teeth through the windshield and I saw him say, "Not just me, anyway." He started the engine and drove away. I was left standing there with the book in my hand, probably 200 or more pages of nothing but my microscopic handwriting, every thought I'd had over the past year. I felt like burning it, burying it deep in the woods somewhere. I flipped through it right there on the lawn and it all seemed so painfully uninteresting. I suddenly remembered all of the secretive things I'd written in it, all of the complicated things, and I felt like crying.

Startled by the memory - I hadn't thought of it in years - I walked to the bookshelf in my room and found the same black journal. I turned it over in my hands just to make sure it was actually there and I couldn't help but wonder what my neighbor had come back to retrieve. I liked to think it was something monumental, like the confession to a murder. A botched suicide note. 'Goodbye, cruel world,' and then he'd changed his mind, crumpling it into a tight ball and stuffing it deep into the bag, trying to hide it from himself.

i sent him a package in the mail once spring came and I was busy again. the second i dropped it off to the postman i began the process of eagerly awaiting his response. when two weeks went by and I still hadn't heard from him, I began to worry that it'd never made it that far, until one morning when i called him up and actually got an answer: 'hello?' he murmured darkly, after what i thought to be a significant pause. his voice sounded very far away, like he was wrapped in a blanket or speaking into a tin can. like he was calling from space.

'hi,' i said, just as darkly. i noticed there was music on in the background - not the music i had sent him, but it was just as sad, just as thoughtful. i became instantly humbled, realizing that the call probably wasn't going to go as well as i'd hoped. 'what are you doing?' i asked dumbly. what did it matter, he obviously wasn't enjoying himself.

but he answered, somewhat brightly: 'i'm having lunch."

'oh,' i said, delighted. i wanted to ask what he was eating but didn't. 'with who?' i asked instead, though there was no reason for me doing so. i hadn't heard a foreign voice lilting in the background, my suspicions weren't aroused. it was just something to say.

the music droned on, still i couldn't recognize it. there was some faint clattering, a moving of objects. he was thumbing through pieces of paper, turning them over and over, steadily. finally he spoke, so low and soft that i wasn't sure i'd heard him at all. 'with you,' he said.

and i could see him right then, sitting at the desk that he'd dragged into the kitchen one winter (he'd done it so he could sit and write by the open oven - there wasn't a heater). he had lined up the photographs i'd sent at the back of the desktop, they were leaning there against the wall, all in a row. he'd already torn open the candy bar - probably did that straight-away, actually - and it was sitting at his elbow, the wrapping peeled hurriedly back, fingers reaching every now and again for another piece. the orange was perched happily atop the box in which it had come - in my mind it was sitll fresh and firm, like the day i sent it. he'd eat it right after the chocolate, to rinse it down. i could also hear him smoking one of the cigarettes, lightly pulling in and slowly sighing out. i realized i may have interrupted him.

'when did you get it?' i asked, referring to the package. 'today?'

'no, saturday,' he said. saturday was three days ago.

my image of him eyeing the objects with an overwhelming excitement, picking them up and handling them, turning them over in his hands for the sheer pleasure of feeling closer to me, touching things i'd touched, was replaced by a scene in which he ignored the package for days, tossing it onto an already-cluttered tabletop and forgetting about it for awhile. now he'd gotten around to looking through all of it and he was disappointed. that's right - now that i thought about it, his voice wasn't just sad - it was the voice of someone who'd been let down.

'i'm sorry,' i began, but he cut in.

'thanks for everything.' this was abrupt, terse, as in a business deal. 'thanks for the chocolate,' he added, loudly breaking off another piece - it was one of those hard, fancy bars. dark chocolate in thick little squares that were hard to separate. he put it into his mouth and began to chew.

i thought, in that moment, about the dreams i'd had of him and how i was always surprised by reality, when it came. in the dreams he was such an energetic companion, not as old as he actually is, or at least he didn't seem as old. in dreams he always responded to conversation exactly as i wanted him to, he had all the right words. we always wanted to do the same things, go to the same places. we were attracted to one another.

on the phone he started to tell me about how he'd gone to the park and watched the birds, and i was stricken by how strange that sounded, how it didn't even seem real. people didn't actually do things like watch birds, did they? going to parks, gardening for pleasure. it seemed like the stuff of aunts, of small old women wearing hats.

'you know, it hurts my feelings that you didn't open it right away,' i said suddenly, cutting off a lengthy soliloquy about pigeons, how disgusting they are.

'it shouldn't,' he said immediately.

so i was right, he had waited. 'no?' i asked dubiously, but there was a hint of relief in my voice that i'm sure he detected.

'no, please don't look at it like that,' he insisted, and he sounded honest. it sounded like it was far more complicated than i realized, too complicated for me to understand, smart as i was. i decided i would leave it alone, at least for awhile.

'so you'll call me up, then? later tonight?'

i was surprised. why did he want me to call him again? he had seemed so distant, so painfully unwilling to communicate. he had probably answered the phone in a desperate swipe born simply from the desire to stop that awful sound, that awful ringing. he didn't want to talk to me, not yet. my letters and all that had come with them were too powerful; they served to remind him of his existence. he was forced to think of himself as a person, once more. someone who was expected to move about and function, take care of himself, keep up with his wit and his vocabulary so that he could send letters in return. but he no longer knew how to handle someone loving him, it seemed. the notion that someone cared about and possibly had expectations for him was far, far too frightening. no, he just wasn't quite ready for all of that.

at work. there's a nurse here called nell, her name is everywhere. i bet she isn't as lovely as your nell is. you've brought me to the point of feeling dim pangs of secondary appreciation for your long lost lover, to the degree that even seeing the name in this setting causes a faint sense of affection to pass through me.

i haven't written with a proper pencil in a while and it feels nice. this is one of those working environments that provides everything. freshly sharpened number 2 pencils, for instance, are scattered in abundance. there are electric sharpeners at the ready. stacks of tea, mostly decaffeinated so we can offer it to the patients. you see, we don't want them staying up late, they're troubled, they need their rest (this is what they tell me). if i get hungry, there's a refrigerator. coffee, there's coffee. they pay me extra if i work in the afternoon, they pay me even more if i work in the middle of the night. i'm all set, really. it's the job i'd always wanted, i'm officially a mental health counselor - i even have to sign all documents that way. and yet if i were to be truthful, i'd much rather slave away in that crummy, cockroach-infested restaurant. it offered me more spirit and more satisfaction. it sounds ridiculous, but food is very alive, the people there were very alive, and here … it's just death. everyone and everything is dying. the feelings of hope are few and far between and yes, as an adolescent it had all seemed very mystical and frightening - well, i suppose it still does - but i almost feel as though my curiosity has been sated. already, i know. i'm such a ridiculous person, never satisfied by anything, always wanting more, more, more. maybe the trouble is that it's exactly what i'd always imagined it would be. and that is … less fascinating and more distressing. but i'll continue to come, because i do enjoy it. i just suppose i'm far too self-involved to go on helping others while completely neglecting my own fulfillment in the meantime.

the environment is quite depressing, as i suspected it would be. when i was a teenager just embarking on the world of college, i enrolled in a dreadful english course that was centered around the proper structure of an argument. i was bored by the class and didn't particularly feel like arguing any points, so i chose extremely vague subjects and wrote seven to ten pages of complete and utter bullshit with little or no valid support. they were basically opinionated tirades based on topics i knew nothing about, in any legitimate sense. this was a time during which my interest in mental illness was in full effect, not to mention my propensity for lying and spinning the most ridiculous of tales, so naturally i decided to construct an argument that claimed that the environments set forth for mentally ill patients in locked facilities were actually detrimental to the overall state of their health and the progress of their recovery. i wrote the paper from the [false] perspective of an actual employee at an actual mental health facility, who'd experienced the alleged misery first-hand. i wrote with inexplicable fervor about the materials made available or not made available to the afflicted, and i managed to churn out about fifteen hand-written pages on the matter. what was i thinking, you ask? (no, i'm sure you weren't wondering that at all.) But in case you were (you weren't), the answer is, "i don't know." at any rate, some of my theories (presented as facts, remember) were that it seemed, to me, very improbable that anyone affected by a mental illness - whether that be schizophrenia, major depression, post-traumatic stress disorder or plain old psychosis would benefit positively from being subjected to greasy, paint-chipped walls in unfortunate shades of white or seafoam green; being made to pad silently across stained carpeting, presumably a faded mauve not at all conducive to optimism. i researched, in vain, in an attempt to discover any corroborating evidence - statements from patients declaring their distaste for their surroundings. i found such admissions, much to my relief, for when you begin fabricating quotes and bibliographical sources, professors are sure to catch on. well, if they know what they're doing, that is, and the majority of my professors have. it's strange, though, because every personal supportive statement in that paper was blind speculation - quite simply, i was spouting pre-conceived notions that had no basis in reality about, first, what it must look and feel like in most mental hospitals, and second, what the patients must feel about all of it. my seemingly naive suspicions were eventually confirmed, however, and continue to be confirmed, at least in the settings i've dealt with so far.

i've worked in two facilities at this point - one centered around caring for children (ages 8-17) and the other for adults, 18 and up. both of them are quite similar in appearance, in that they strangely resemble kindergarten classrooms. (sort of disturbing, isn't it?) the ceilings are low, there are locks on everything in sight - these are cumbersome, obsolete padlocks that clang noisily whenever there's the slightest bit of activity in a room. fluorescent tube lighting, which is depressing no matter who you are, where you are, or why you're there in the first place. the food is literally prepared by prison inmates and then whisked to us in friendly wheeled containers made of plastic in primary colors. and the food is bland, lifeless - not even salt or pepper to appease the tongue. the bread is often two or three days old, with a strange texture due to having just been defrosted from the freezer. a chilly pat of margarine is offered alongside, rubbery and unyielding. i listen as each and every patient complains about the food, wishing for just one herb, one spice, one beverage other than sickeningly sweet fruit juice or tepid tea. (we must purposely deliver it to them in this temperate state, as we don't want them scalding themselves or others. we must also assiduously remove any staples from the teabag, itself, for obvious reasons.)

i've listened as a 19 year old girl (i'd be chastised for this if it ever got out, i'm sure, but she's my 'favorite' and i probably pay more attention to her than i ought to) cried emphatically to me about how depressing she found the place, and how she didn't see how anyone could expect her to combat her turmoil while locked in a cold tile room with an inflatable mattress. more or less, these people are being treated as though they've done something wrong, when in most cases they're merely the inadvertent victims of unfortunate genetic coding. why, then, are they being punished? is there nothing else to do with them, nowhere else to direct them? i will admit that it's almost too much sadness for me to handle, at times. my inception as an employee corresponded absolutely with the onset of my first panic attacks, and the ensuing cyclical disaster of convincing myself of my own impending insanity. it's starting to seem as though my experiences here have permanently re-wired very key aspects of my psyche, and this has certainly led to instances in which i wish i could turn back time and accept a different, less emotionally demanding job - one that would offer me peace and quiet reflection. either an ordinary job that would require little brain-power or a creatively challenging job that would inevitably lead to inward enrichment. of course i'd prefer the latter. here, too much empathy is required of me. too much wondering very deeply about others' lives, silently wishing that they, too, could turn back time and find themselves situated - nestled, even - within that unattainable perfect home, feet warming by the fire, chatting over piping hot mugs of what-have-you. i can see this position being easier on an unfeeling individual, one who could observe the misery with a purely clinical eye, but within my own limits, this will never be possible. i don't just want to hug that 19 year old girl in order to console her (and i can't even do that, not even if she were to tearfully and honestly fling her arms open for me, offering the youthful expanse of her chest) - i'd sooner adopt her. i know that she isn't getting the help she needs here, and she never will. and yet i can't say i'm hopeful for her release. i think she'll always be here. and if not here, another place, similar; perhaps even worse. it drains me even to think about her future - how must she feel?

at any rate, it's been interesting. i've been here less than a month and i'm beginning to wonder how some of them have lasted years. it must be that clinical, unfeeling edge that i mentioned. what are they thinking about, i wonder? what's their secret? i suppose i don't care, because i still won't practice it, whatever it is.

you know, we once had a conversation about handwritten letters, and we both spoke fondly of them. i wonder, then, why we've taken so long to set the exchange in motion. the dialogue took place on a climatically unpleasant afternoon, one of those horrendously cold yet sunny days that lacked even the idea of a cloud, which you knew would have brought some comfort. it was probably january, for it had already been made clear that i'd be moving, and we were walking up a side road toward washington avenue. i believe we were destined to get soup.

i remember quite vividly, for i was staring intently at the sidewalk before me, plotting my maneuvers around the slippery ice. you were shuffling alongside and lamenting that you hadn't been sent any good, substantial handwritten letters in quite a while. when i asked if you'd be willing to write some to me in return if i would, indeed, agree to provide you with these much-coveted letters, you stated that you would love to, but you didn't think you'd be as good at is as perhaps you once were. doubting this, i smiled broadly and steadied you as you began to slip.

i've been pausing to read the book that we're both working our way through and i just happened upon something interesting. something that relates to what i was just saying about the supposed emotionless undercurrent that courses through my colleagues:

"whenever in the course of my life i have come across, in convents for instance, truly saintly embodiments of practical charity, they have generally had the cheerful, practical, brusque and unemotioned air of a busy surgeon, the sort of face in which one can discern no commiseration, no tenderness at the sight of suffering humanity, no fear of hurting it, the impassive, unsympathetic, sublime face of true goodness."

what do you make of this passage, as far as relating it to my own speculations? i suppose that the above is quite probable in my co-workers' cases, but shouldn't there be an acute difference between the way a surgeon and a psychologist mentally approach their form of healthcare? it seems as though they're likely adhering to a standard that should never have been expected of them. but alas, i've discussed this enough. perhaps we'll talk about it more a little later.

now i'm peeling an orange, and it's reminding me of christmas. i've never quite understood why until the other evening, when i climbed into a car being driven by my mother and began peeling one that i'd excavated from the bottom of my shoulder bag. she turned to me and casually commented that the odor reminded her of christmas. startled, i raised the fruit to my lips and asked her why. she answered that it was because she'd always found them in her stocking as a child, hanging heavily in the decorative toe of the thing, so eagerly draped over the hearth. i then realized that the same was true of me and my childhood except, at the time, i'd resented the gifted oranges - rolling them across the table to my father, who would eat and enjoy them while i sucked greedily on candies.

today i sometimes find it difficult to think of anything more plainly erotic than an orange. inserting a nail into its skin with a deliberate force, spreading it apart with warm fingers. and once the skin has been removed, the nearly sexual act of burrowing your fingertips into the fruit in order to spread it open into halves. the resistance provided by the sinewy flesh makes me delirious, and the sound it makes - it sounds like something being pried apart, it sounds like someone trying to get at something quite desperately.

i feel as though i could benefit from a short nap at this point. just a gasp of sleep is all i need, really. just a sip.

i took a 100-second nap on the sofa in the visitor's lounge. obviously i was awake if i was able to count to 100, but it was dark in there and i closed my eyes, so it wasn't all bad. i don't feel rested but i think i've successfully convinced myself that it helped somewhat. oh, and while i was back there, i stole a glance out of the skinny window mounted in the door and what i saw was … fantastic. the sun's just beginning to rise, so the forest (the hospital is resting snug in an expanse of evergreens) is laced with a rather electric pink hue, made slightly creamy by the fog that's snaked its way in. the yellow glance from the occasional pole-mounted lamp lends an air of antiquity that's only rivaled by the apparent age of the trees.

how would you like to see it? i'd love for you to see it, personally. the walks we've discussed - i fantasize about them, now. i draw upon memories of our walks in philadelphia to add credence to these fantasies. when i write about us (and i've been doing so at a steady rate since we first spoke) i often write about walking with you, and how i'd constantly suppress the urge to link my arm in your own, or to pat your head because you're smaller than me. or how i'd wonder what the people we'd pass were thinking. middle-aged black man, with your radio propped on soggy cardboard - what do you think when we cut across what i'd jokingly call your living room (though it was only a small square of sidewalk on 9th street, just a few yards down from the fish merchant)? i especially wondered about the thoughts of your acquaintances as we'd strut past. who did they think i was? what role did i play in your life, to them? i always hoped for something sordid and raunchy - your lover, of course. perhaps a fellow drug user or even your provider. if only they knew of our innocent musings upstairs in your drafty apartment: posing in hard-backed chairs and eating cookies served on small, mismatched plates.

it's the next day and i'm eating dinner. i've been working for almost 24 hours now, with only a small two-hour restful interruption, but i'm feeling quite lucid. while writing to you last night, i was in the children's unit. today i've been with the adults. it's killing me. today's been hard, though not in the sense once might initially assume.

first of all, the 19 year old girl i mentioned above is leaving us in three days. whereas i'm delighted that she'll have another chance at rearranging her life, she's confided to me that she doesn't plan to continue taking her medication (she denies having a mental disorder altogether, actually, though she's schizo-affective). before she resigned to taking the pills at all, she was quite the troublemaker - throwing water on two doctors, hitting a nurse in the face with a bible, even managing to escape. not to mention her daily yelling and pacing sprees. over time, i observed others' treatment of her, in a general sense - how she was approached, spoken to, dealt with. and it seemed, to me, that her outlandish behaviors were actually being nurtured. if she was acting like a child, she'd be spoken to like a child. no one seemed to want to genuinely know anything about her. she was being asked things like what her favorite color is and what kind of breakfast cereal she prefers. not exactly soul-plumbing inquiries. and maybe that isn't the position we should be in, maybe we are only meant to placate them and to numb them. but if you can do more, do more, i say, so long as it's within reason. and i find that what i'm doing certainly is.

(i did actively reach out to her, and i'm still trying to decide how i feel about it. i guess i feel that proactively offering yourself completely to one person is better than nothing to no one at all.)

the first tactic i assumed was to approach her as calmly as possible, initially only making (earnest) eye contact. at first, she silently questioned this, matching my inquisitive gaze with her own wary, more fierce version, reducing her eyes to guarded slits. 'who are you?' they asked, but i didn't relent. i pressed on with a mouthed 'hello', which she found humorous. in no time at all she was asking me to do things for her - make her tea, help her with the laundry, provide her a bar of the leftover hotel soap that we dole out. it was miraculous. she even began greeting me when i'd come in for the day. eventually, small compliments were given: 'nice hat,' she'd say truthfully, or 'i like your eye makeup.' little gifts, these phrases. treasures. all of this opened the door to more intimate conversation, in which she'd confess that she didn't feel helped by the program ('the system', as she called it - something she's apparently been an unwilling part of since the age of ten or eleven). i asked her who she'd be re-joining once she was out in the wilderness again, and of course her answer was 'no one'. sad. sad, i say. i've often tried to envision any semblance of a life she may have had outside of here … it's challenging. i don't mean it's difficult for me to actively imagine these things, i mean the visions, themselves, are challenging to see. does she know what happiness is, in any sense? what were her happiest moments, how could they be re-created? what do holidays look like for her? what was high school in her experience, what are friends? lovers? despite having been raped on more than one occasion, has she ever known a man?

she's so young, so young that i should be able to relate to her very intensely. but i know what it's like to have a stable family, one free of divorce and court orders and excommunication. i have siblings, we get along okay, we're there for each other if needed. there are people who care deeply about me, i can turn to them if i have to. most importantly, i know what it's like to a experience a quote-unquote normal childhood, with the birthday presents and the outdoor celebrations, baked beans on the lawn. the band concerts, the lust-filled pages of my diaries, the staying up late on a school night, eating ice cream in my warm bed, warm bedroom. i know the odor of a home-cooked meal, night after night. 'clean your plate, i care about you. i care about your health. what's wrong, child? how can i help you?' …

to not know these things, to live a life devoid of them, seems as frightening and foreign a notion as not being born at all. what is life without unwavering support? i know not. she, on the other hand, knows nothing else.

she's gone, now. she left two days ago, today being saturday at 2:06 in the morning. i didn't get a chance to say goodbye. the last time i spoke with her she was asking me to live with her, on the outside. her eyes pleaded with me. 'i don't have any friends,' she reminded me. 'i need someone like you.'

she needs someone like me. i considered the information cautiously. 'what makes you say that?' i urged, curiosity getting the better of me.

the all-too-familiar response: 'you're not like the others.' she'd actually said it. scarier still, she meant it, i could tell. i know how to discern between a blind, meaningless latching-onto of a person born out of the desperate need for support and the genuine belief that a bond exists. touched, i inwardly composed my reply. nurses and doctors loomed like malicious scarecrows, casting what i knew to be stares of warning, though i didn't look directly at any of them. 'watch it,' those looks intended to say, so i watched it. i offered a meek, pre-recorded rationalization to the poor girl: 'for your benefit and mine, staff and clients are not permitted to acquaint themselves with one another outside the confines of this facility .. ' - i'm sure she knew it was bullshit, that i didn't really meant what i was saying. and she did know, because she said, 'i wouldn't want you to lose your job or anything,' at which point we chuckled convivially, much to the chagrin of my lofty colleagues.

for the remainder of the last day that we spent in each others' company, she followed me around as stealthily and inconspicuously as possible, repeating that she wished we'd met in a different environment, and that she suspected we had a lot in common. and oh, how right she was, probably moreso than she'll ever realize. she's just a girl, a desperate girl. i won't forget her, i'm sure of it. she's so bright, so intuitive, so able to discard falsehoods and pretense. a remarkable human. a rare breed.

now, then. onto other, more important matters. how goes it, in the lonely world of david? i will admit my embarrassment arising from that frantic, tear-drenched phone call i made to you no more than two weeks ago … don't quite know what came over me. it was real, though - i'm not discrediting the emotion that was involved. i'd never felt so bleak as i had that day, so very deeply entrenched within that yawning, colorless crevasse that embodies what we call helplessness. and there i trembled, scruffy and taciturn, writhing about on my mother's flowered bedsheets. it was fiercely unsettling, to actually experience such emptiness. i wondered where the better me could have escaped to - was she off somewhere, loving life as she always had? whistling down a narrow street on her bicycle, so verdant in the black night? meanwhile, the shell of that person was trying to fend off the lugubrious side effects of thinking too fucking much. but i can't tell you anything new, david. that's the problem we now must deal with.

by the way, i find it positively charming that you have such a rough time facing criticism! is this wrong, is it sick? let me be sick, then. you remind me so much of myself, the foreshadowing increases with every conversation.

a question: after i'd left and you hadn't heard from me in some time, did you ever worry that you'd never see the likes of me again? (listen to me prattle on - 'the likes of me,' as if i'm some sort of scoundrel, an outlaw.) as i've already stated, there were definitely times when i thought your inability to pick up the phone was a certain indication of your death. the day on which you finally chose to answer, i felt the concentrated mass of worry that had formed in my throat slowly unravelling - you were still there, still waking and shifting about, still pressing styrofoam cups to your lips and tasting the coffee there. the joy i felt! to know that you were still trudging your way through the positively calamitous affair that is south philadelphia; it made me happy. knowing that i'd one day pull you from the wreckage made me even happier.

so here we are, miles apart. vast expanses act as our partition, limitless terrains. and speaking of which, i'm riding the ferry, staring at the earth, what little of it i can see. i just paid a visit to my dear friends baklava and fresh mint tea. i've found a little place in the city whose cuisine is nearly as delicious as that of where i was a waitress, and that's saying quite a lot. it's good for the nostalgia, at any rate.

it really is quite beautiful here. it's especially nice outside my window today, the water rough and green, belching forth long streams of white foam. the islands rise importantly; so contained, so mysterious. seattle is gradually disappearing, now, a motley cluster of chess pieces shrouded in fog.

such flowery language for such a dreary day. but you know that's how i like it. a seagull is streaming by. mount rainier is invisible, but i know its proportions so exactly that i may as well be looking at it. a single yellow tree winks at me from a nest of green. do the others see it as an outcast or a miracle? the rain is light but always present. there are no longer clouds, but one very large cloud, commanding the afternoon. these are the things i know, david. i can't recite passages from meaty foreign novels, i can't let political jargon fly from my tongue quite so easily. you have seemingly limitless knowledge. i, on the other hand, have only my intuition.

last night i had a dream that my own father shot me in the face, and i was left horribly disfigured for the rest of my life. later on he was chasing me down a busy street and i was crying as i tried to keep away from him.

a dream in which i'd driven somewhere with my parents in an inoffensive little black car, a friendly and sleek four-wheel-drive that smelled new. we arrived beneath an overpass in the middle of the day; it felt like an airport. all i could see before me was cold and grey.

and then i was in a mental hospital. my parents were nowhere to be found, but the grey continued - inside this place it was a bit like a castle, or a dungeon. a prison. there was a large cage in the center of the main room that housed the wildest man. he was curled up tight, resting. electrodes sucked at his body, there were red wires criss-crossing everywhere and small monitors with his black and white image flickering from every corner. the mood was dark. no one was laughing or having fun or even having a good day.

a female companion and i were looking for a place to lie down, still in this hospital. it was nighttime then, time to go to bed. all of the patients and all of the workers had turned in for the night.

we found a narrow mattress near the cage and attempted to lie comfortably on it together. near us was one of the workers, a young man spread out on a full bed even closer to the cage. he woke up as we stood over him, demanding that we be allowed to switch. he obliged but warned us that a patient had soaked the mattress in urine earlier on and that it still needed a good cleaning.

the man in the cage began to stir, slowly uncoiling himself until he was heaving against the bars, his sweat shining on his chest and across the ropes of his arms, accentuating their strength. we'd awoken him with our conversation.

my companion and i walked from room to room, looking for an exit. in doing so i began to scream, loudly and desperately. raw wails like those heard from the patients, the tormented roars of someone completely out of control, out of touch with the good things that they know and fully engulfed by their suffering.

outside i was greeted by my parents, once again - my friend was gone. my mother was the nearest to me, teetering unattractively on wedge heels - she'd tried to make herself look young. she'd gained back all of the weight, most of it now in her face and jowls and her hair was flipped up at the ends exactly as i'd seen it look in her high school yearbooks. she should have been carrying an apple pie, but instead she looked at me uncomfortably and asked if it was me who had been screaming. i said yes and she said casually, "you're funny." she thought i'd been doing it to make fun of the patients, and she was honestly amused by this perception.

we walked until we reached the car, both of my parents bickering about a piece of paper that they'd been looking everywhere for and still couldn't find. i got into the backseat and saw what they were agonizing over, sitting right there on the floor between the seats, so i handed it up to them. my mother said, very loudly, "son of a BITCH," and i was so embarrassed by it, by her brash disrespect for the quiet, dark-haired parking attendant who was waiting calmly at the front of the car for us to pay. he stepped politely off to the side while my mother scolded my father for not remembering were the paper was and it felt terrible to be associated with them; i looked at the boy through the windshield and said to my mother, "don't curse in front of strangers," but she was digging deep into her purse for something, still shrieking at my father, who was fighting to be heard insulting her, and we slowly backed away while i dropped my head lower and lower, sliding down the new leather seats, hiding from anyone we might pass along the way.

Remember LAST summer, when I wouldn't shut up about the movie I wanted to make here at the house? And how I said it was going to get DONE? Well, it never did! But this summer I'm seeing to it that it finally does, because really - everything is in place!

fashionable female hero? check!

suspicious-looking guypal who shows up every now and again? check!

creepy neighbors (one's a young, hip rocker, the other an old hippie who talks of nothing but the weather)? check!

creepy little house in the woods? check!

amazing location / setting? check!

mummified cat? check!

live cat that likes to jump up and sit in the windowframe so it can stare at the people inside the house? check!

... and on and on ... there's so much that we have to work with, the only thing we really need is MONEY, but we're planning on makin' do without that & just shooting digital. whatever, the content will outshine the shitty medium. summer is beautiful here in washington, so we won't have to worry about the weather. and what with the bonfires and the mass yard sales and the treehouse being built and the rope swing going up and the friendly people that come in and out of here and the respect we get from the surrounding neighbors in our 'hood, i'm just gonna say right here and now that i'll be damned surprised if the whole gang of us doesn't band together and get this thing accomplished.

last night, for the second time in my life, i was inexplicably overwhelemed by the idea that when i move to LA, i'm going to end up meeting paul reubens and something strange will emerge from our meeting.

last night i discovered that i can't rely on my own mother for emotional support.

we went to her house for Easter dinner. instantly after arriving there i felt a bit panic-attacky but it subsided rather quickly. lots of family members in a small kitchen, lots of people i don't relate to on any level, lots of people who constantly feel the need to judge me. first words i hear when i walk in are, "of COURSE you only show up right when dinner is being served." - this from an uncle whom i've spoken less than 50 words with in my entire life. this comment is what caused the wave of panic to rush over me as i was left wondering what i might do in retort, worrying about what i might say. but i said nothing, pretended i hadn't heard him.

so we ate, uncomfortably, at the kitchen table. i'm typically really good at small-talk and appeasing and pleasing when i'm in a foul mood, but yesterday i couldn't manage a single word for at least an hour. i was scowling. deeply frowning. at first they all tried to include us in their conversations (which were, of course, superficial - ooh! sale at Mervyn's! this ham is great! i like your new bathroom sink!), but the inclusion gradually tapered off, until my entire family was completely ignoring us (which was fine, that's what we were going for).

after we got home, the phone rang. it was my mother, and i was pleased. but she was just wanting to ask me if i'd heard (from Margaret, my aunt, who works with me) that there were full-time positions opening at my hospital. the hospital i'd just finished complaining about when, at dinner, someone had asked me how work was going. the one i said was driving me nuts, CAUSING my mood problems, causing the most severe depression i've ever endured, feelings i never thought i'd feel, sadness i never thought i'd know. but apparently she hadn't been listening. initially i was polite, saying, "oh, no, i hadn't heard that," and then hanging up without further discussion. but i quickly grabbed up the phone and called her again.

"didn't you hear me when i was saying that i don't want to work at the mental hospital anymore?"

and she said, "oh, that's right," in her very distant, very cold way.

she is a very cold woman, her entire family is cold. she's the type who thinks throwing money at a predicament will smooth it over and make it bright and beautiful all over again.

and then i cried to her, and i told her that she wasn't taking me seriously, and that something major is going on upstairs, lots of racing thoughts, inability to focus on things that are important to me, severe mood swings, 10 of them in a day. i told her about how i'm tired all of the time, how i eat when i'm not hungry, how i sit around thinking about all of the FUCKING things i want to do but my body just won't cooperate and how it frustrates me.

and you know what she said? she said, "i never swore at MY mother." and after the long pause that followed, she added, "and you know, moving to Philadelphia probably didn't help anything."

so i cried some more, and yelled at her, and told her she didn't know me and that we had nothing in common. i asked her why she's never tried to forge a relationship with me outside of asking me out to lunch at one of the shitty chain restaurants in town. i told her at least i TRY with her, at least i wrote her that 4-page letter at Christmas telling her that i loved her and that i wanted to be closer to her. i may as well not have even written it.

i hung up on her, trembling and horrified. i feel as though a lot of things have begun to become very clear to me in the past year or so, i feel like my brain has woken up in a lot of ways, taken notice of things that have always existed, one of those things being her iciness. and how empty i felt when i realized, for what seemed to be the first time, that i couldn't turn to her when i needed help. perhaps i'd never been in mental anguish before, or at least i hadn't in a long long time, but let's just say i didn't get the reaction from her that i'd been expecting.

and then i further recognized that i didn't have any girlfriends i could call and invite over, i don't have anyone. (except zak, and i always say that, but i can only put him through so much.) i love it here and i love my home and my neighbors are neat and etc, but i hate some very key aspects of my life right now: my family's here, which has caused more harm than good, and my job is THE PITS. like, the stinkiest, filthiest, hairiest caveman pits you could possible imagine. and i need to leave. but i feel scared and alone and unsupported and unloved and i've never KNOWN feelings like that. and on top of it all my brain is going crazy. i mean really. i know that a lot of folks say that to be cute/dark/goth/whatever else, but my mind is seriously up to no good. i mean ... it's unpredictable and i seemingly have no control over the moods it sets forth for me. i can't stop thinking. i can't stop analyzing. i can't stop picking everything apart until nothing means anything anymore. i can't embark on any projects because i think about them for days on end first and convince myself that they aren't worth doing.

i know i'm not really like this and that i should be able to continue doing things normally and easily, just as i always had, but i suppose i'm realizing that i'm going to need further support in the matter, and as i've pointed out, the loins of my fruit just ain't an option.