Finally when I have reasons to go visit the Island, I can’t. Friday Daryl’s getting married and Saturday is Mishka’s birthday. I was just chatting with her on-line. We agree that it’s a very surreal thing, Darryl getting hitched. I remember when I met him, how he cried into his fluffy hair because I was involved with Lidd and not him. Why do boys always cry? We’re wondering if Lidd is in fact going to show up to the wedding. We’re wondering if he knows or if he’s alive. It seems no-one’s seen him since January or Febuary, and reports from then say he’d been turned onto meth in a bad way. Chemical addiction to add to his violent drunken rages. Such suffering in that one. I remember nights spent bruised. Sitting on the balcony, looking out over the city, I would realize my cheeks were wet. I assume the cat has died, and Sue the crazy neighbor still drinks too much tequila in front of her giant television that’s never turned off. That woman was a minor mystery, we could never figure out what it was that she did with her days. Always inside, except when she was breaking in to ply us with odd plates of snacks. We would wake up to the sound of her clearing space in our wretched kitchen. I suspect that at least once they slept together in drunken loneliness. There is no possible way they could have not. My mind can’t imagine a world that doesn’t supply the circumstances. I only hope it happened after we broke up. After I left him and the city and learned how to love.
Peekaboo was over today, looking over the apartment. That she’s also on Livejournal gave an odd perspective to it. I’ve seen her drunken pictures and she’s read my chicken scratchings. We didn’t have to sketch out some of the more basic aspects of ourselves. Some of the usual roomate interview was missing because, hey – this dyed hair stranger already knows. It’s a nice feeling. I can understand how religion must be a comforting glue. This person also. They write, they click the same buttons. I see what they do. Raise the chalice and drink my child. Not a secret society, but a community none the less. Welcome to my home.
My nails are growing longer, making typing a tiny bit more awkward. All the better to claw thin lines of red down your back. All the better to write desire. “Oh the way you make me crawl” Not, really, that I should be thinking of such things these days. Only result is keeping me from sleeping. Until circumstances make it happen. Then I roll on my tongue the secret names tattooed on my fancies. Taste in my mouth those fingertips that trace ice into flame.
Until then, architecture.
