I’m waiting again. A new sort though, well, an old sort, but not one I’m used to anymore. I feel like I’m wading through my week, looking forward over the waters of everything in the one moment I have nothing to do. I’m working right now, playing thought police to people only a few years younger than I am. I remember being 14, but I don’t ever remember being as young as these kids.
Seeing Silva the other day was an experience. She’s such a tie to the life I used to have. My insane, violent father, my mother with her ever present bruises. I remember when I was six, we lived on Grandview Highway in a little white house with a red porch. It’s not there anymore. The basement was unfinished and mostly full of soil, piled ot the ceiling. Blue people lived there, glowing. I never went down there. No-one would let me in. Outside my window was an old gas tank, painted with that particular silver we never see anymore. It was almost even with my window and boomed with far far distant lightning when I climbed onto it. I remember always feeling empty, and I remember thinking once, only once, that if my father struck me like he hit my mother I would ring with that far off sound as well.