Sunday, August 15, 2004

stand and deliver

I made it. I'm here. Washington DC, on the Maryland side.

All of my crap is stuffed into what used to be the study/ guest bedroom, before my mother took over my room and kicked the teenage ghost of me out.

I haven't cried about leaving, yet. I'm a little worried that maybe I won't cry at all and therefore am dead inside (its a logical conclusion). I'm not much of a crier normally but there has been a lot of change happening in my life lately and I'm wondering where the hell my emotions are and what they are doing, because I could really use a good outpouring to relieve some of this tension.

When I was a kid, my mother tried to end one of my tantrums by making me watch myself cry in the mirror. It just convinced me that crying is better done with a silent and still face, just like in the movies. More noble that way. The next couple of times I cried over the years, I practiced keeping my face still and not dribbling snot everywhere. And, ta-da!, I'm suddenly a cold-hearted bitch who never cries.

The last time I faced this much change was graduation day at college. And I had a complete nervous breakdown. And I cried until my face fell off.

My body is telling me that its experiencing some emotions. I hauled a couch, fourteen boxes, and other assorted shit in and out of of two different cities in one day, and I can't fall asleep at night. Also, my tremor came roaring back, making it really fucking hard to screw. Literally, I can't fucking get the drill bit into the screw head because my hand is dancing the goddamn tango all over the wall. I'm emotional, I get it. I acknowledge these emotions and respect them. I welcome them and breathe deeply through my nostrils.


I may have to get down and dirty and watch a movie where someone dies, but only after having told the town bully/biker/bad boy-with-a-heart-of-gold how much she loves him, even after he ran over the retarded boy down the street and was blamed for the fire that he didn't commit. Perhaps his anguish, at finally being understood after growing up in the ghetto and not learning to read, only to forever loose the understander-er to knee cancer will spark my own ambivalent feelings and produce tears.

Because once I cry, I'll be able to fucking sleep, and lord knows I love sleep.