last glass...dusty buckets...parched e-lips...sponge...drip...drop

2001-12-02 - 11:28 p.m.: green tea with cloves and honey

There's a picture just above my desk of me when I was about 3 or 4 years old, sitting on my grandfather's lap, reading "Yertle the Turtle" with my two middle fingers stuck in my mouth. I was looking at it today....thinking, "Gee. I really haven't changed very much." Except my fingers don't push all the way into my mouth, but stop to rest at my lips. The expression is the same, and the face is the same, only bonier. I feel a little like crying, because I'll never be that innocent again... where the whole world's brand new and ancient at the same time... and things like vacuum cleaners and razors are full of mystery and magic. I can still *get* there, sometimes, but I'm always aware that I'm visiting.... an imposter. Driving myself through things that I can see to pretend I have an inside track to things that I can't see. But somehow I always seem to emerge without any souvenirs.

I'm not making any sense.

I have to write a fifteen page play before Tuesday morning.... I thought I knew what I wanted to write about, but it suddenly seems too depressing. And it's supposed to be a comedy. The problem, I think, is that once I create a character I start to care about him... or her... and then I can't bear to fuck with that character's life... and you can't make people laugh or cry without screwing someone over. Nobody's moved by happy endings unless they're unexpected. Maybe I'll turn it into a satire in which all the characters are jaded and typecast and willing to sacrifice their lives to make a point. Or I'll be Chekov and write a play that's supposed to be bland. Then no one will complain.

My little brother burned his arm today on the side of the oven. He's okay, but he has a big white blister. My dad swore at him when it happened, I think because he squealed a little when it happened, and I felt like screaming: "He's just a little KID! GODDAMMIT! LET HIM CRY WHEN HE'S HURT!" But I just took him into the bathroom and helped him soak it in cold water, and bandaged it. Maybe he was just nervous or scared, and didn't know how to let it out other than through anger. I don't know. But it's not like kids don't have enough to worry about without wondering when their PROTECTORS and GUIDES are going to turn on them.

What the hell do people think it means to be a parent?

(This is something I'll definitely regret writing.)

(Most of the time I think my parents are great.)

(But I'll kill myself before I become them. Any day.)

Enough anger, though. Today was a pretty nice day... cold and rosy and dry. Sweater weather. Made Kraft Spiral Macaroni and Cheese for my brother... haven't had that in years and years. It tasted like crap... but in a *good* way. Think I'll wear pajamas with feet tonight.