There are these moments that have clearly been set aside in time, in history, in the bloody, fucking collision of seconds and atoms and ironies just so I will not forget how perfectly ridiculous it all is, in the end. For example, just now, trying to drink from a full one-gallon jug of Gatorade with a bendy straw. Yeah, Kiernan. That was real smooth. How are you with rocket science. But. But. But. I'm typing this on my old iBook, which is precariously percehed atop two cardboard boxes. I just had to take a moment, not to whinge or plea for mercy, or attempt to curry pity, but just to point out how idiotic this move has become.
And sitting here, in this emptry room, I see one of my "possible pasts" (thank you, Roger Waters), and never mind that this past would, actually, still be a possible future, because I know what I mean. I mean, I see myself as Laura Means, there at The End, rolling those goddamn dice, standing at the open door that leads out into the whole goddamn, wicked Cosmos. Only. It's not Patti Smith playing as I slit my wrists. It's David Bowie. "The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty)." Bingo.
Which is to say, the movers came today, and through a grotesque bit of miscommunication — and I'm not pointing fingers, because I know I'm a hateful bitch — a whole lot of stuff that should have gone on the big truck did not. And we will not be leaving tomorrow, but on Saturday. Tomorrow, we try to talk Penske into letting us swap our 12' truck for a 16' truck, and then unload one truck and fill the other one. My muscles have died and gone to a place where pain only means I'm still alive. Spooky slept one hour last night. And there's still shit to pack.
I'm going to sleep on the floor now, because our bed is on its way to Rhode Island without us. But. First, my thanks to
unknownbinaries for what truly is a wonderful painting. I'll use it in a future issue of Sirenia Digest, with her consent. Also, I will get Vince's illustration for "Rappaccini's Dragon" out to subscribers...eventually. And my thanks to Byron, and "Hannah," and "Jim." And to Spooky's mom and dad. And to Spooky, who really should have murdered me by now...
And sitting here, in this emptry room, I see one of my "possible pasts" (thank you, Roger Waters), and never mind that this past would, actually, still be a possible future, because I know what I mean. I mean, I see myself as Laura Means, there at The End, rolling those goddamn dice, standing at the open door that leads out into the whole goddamn, wicked Cosmos. Only. It's not Patti Smith playing as I slit my wrists. It's David Bowie. "The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty)." Bingo.
Which is to say, the movers came today, and through a grotesque bit of miscommunication — and I'm not pointing fingers, because I know I'm a hateful bitch — a whole lot of stuff that should have gone on the big truck did not. And we will not be leaving tomorrow, but on Saturday. Tomorrow, we try to talk Penske into letting us swap our 12' truck for a 16' truck, and then unload one truck and fill the other one. My muscles have died and gone to a place where pain only means I'm still alive. Spooky slept one hour last night. And there's still shit to pack.
I'm going to sleep on the floor now, because our bed is on its way to Rhode Island without us. But. First, my thanks to
unknownbinaries for what truly is a wonderful painting. I'll use it in a future issue of Sirenia Digest, with her consent. Also, I will get Vince's illustration for "Rappaccini's Dragon" out to subscribers...eventually. And my thanks to Byron, and "Hannah," and "Jim." And to Spooky's mom and dad. And to Spooky, who really should have murdered me by now...- Current Mood:
doomed - Current Music:Placebo, "Meds"
Comments
Good luck with the move, I hope it goes much smoother from here on out.