I spent most of the morning hiding/mourning in bed, dreaming and wishing life were different. A bunch of "what-ifs" running through my head. What if I'd got my shit together and gone to Bennington? What if I'd studied more? What if I'd partied less? What if I'd stood up for myself more often? What if I'd actually leaned in to kiss them when that feeling took hold of me? What if I'd actually asked them out? What if I'd never asked her what they meant? What if I'd handled that situation with M.R. better? What if I killed myself? Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda, blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda.
I am so sick of myself.
I have no energy this week. I drift off, then awake maybe a half hour later. Lilly is there with me. Petting her, she licks my fingers, then stares at the wall--Bright Green Eyes in the Sunlight. I pretend this melancholy and tiredness is because I haven't had any coffee, but I know better; as, I've been here before, This Low. (J.F.--people are looking cartoonish again, colorful shadows swirling before my unfocused eyes. I look out the window at lunch, like TV again, but the antenna is disconnected, loose wiring.)
I check email. Nothing. I still need to reply to people, but the words I create seem Meaningless, or, and the very least, yawn-inducing boring.
Go back to bed. Lilly sits in the window, staring at birds. I think about crying to help expel some of this Black Lump of Sadness clogging up my insides, but can't.
At 2:35 p.m. I make some coffee just to wake up, to shake off this Grubby Zombie Mind. I look like The Scream guy. I drag a chair on to the back porch and start to hand-write this. Someone down the block is blasting Aretha Franklin albums (Respect) and other Motown songs. It's warm, but a nice breeze makes its way into my alcove.
The building across the street just got new windows installed. None of the apartments' window "dressings" match. The top floor has white drapes. A single tiny plant sits on a sill and a silent moving wind chime flickers copper in the wind and sun. The second floor is hidden behind 3 regular Venetian blinds, but the middle one is green, not white. The far left one is raised, exposing Red Lace draped across the window, partially pulled to the side to reveal the back of a photography studio chair: rattan and rounded, like a smaller version of the famous Huey P. Newton photograph with shotgun. The ground floor has those vertical blinds you find in office buildings and doctor's offices. The window is open without a screen. I think the occupant maybe deals drugs out through there. People are always hanging around outside it, and talking to the (possibly) short Mexican man within, briefly. I think I caught a quick glimpse of him today as a mom and two boys did some sort of transaction. She stuffing things into her small black purse before they walked away. Later, a sister and her brother (12-14?) tried looking into the window, then started a slap fight with each other. Walked away. About twenty minutes later, they walked past again. She had him in a head-lock and bent forward walking down the block. His right pant leg pulled up--Folks?
strangely, people seem to walk past two or three times today. That black lady with an African/Caribbean Turban and Scottish-looking blue shorts. The older man who's constantly working on his red truck. That kid drinking Yoohoo and spitting on the bushes. That petite girl in a denim skirt. Back and forth.
Apparently a "Troy" lives down from me in the next stoop. Five guys parked by the building, yelling "Troy!" Walked past to the front of the building and got buzzed in and then walked past me inside the gate. One, the shortest one, responded with a half smile and mouthed "hi" to my silent nod greeting.
The sound of basketballs are as constant as the ticking of a clock here.
Someone scratched "Zilo" into a brick by my (empty) neighboring apartment's back door.
Mostly I'm staring off into space or into the trees in front of me. So many people carrying black garbage bags or Dominicks bags, or have black hair. The old man still works on his truck. Somewhere in the breeze a couple argue. All I can understand is "...I ain't no mothafucka!" Pigeons feed in the street, slow to move out of car's way.
Someday, I'd like to bring two chairs out here. Sit with a girlfriend, sip drinks in a warm night. Make her laugh, kiss softly and hold hands or just get lost in her Eyes, Face, and Hair.
I used to do that. With my last girlfriend. Her and her roommates had a huge deck out back with a picnic table. It looked onto a bushy, tree-filled small yard. We'd get up in the morning, legs slightly sore and body dehydrated from the night before, but rested. We'd sit at the table, holding hands, sipping our coffee and sharing a couple of Camel Lights for a couple hours or minutes if one of us had to work that day. Those cool Autumn mornings we'd cuddle close on the bench, clutching our mugs in both hands to stave off the chill.
I miss that feeling.
The old man at the truck drops his tools. It sounds like a game of horseshoes. He whistles along to the radio and claps his hands to the music. Madonna's "Love Don't Live Here Anymore" comes on. One of my favorite songs from that album, so sad. I used to yearn for that kind of pain as a teen, now I'd do so much to be rid of it.
A girl walks by making bubbles.
Lilly is sprawled out asleep on the kitchen tile.
I go inside, make a salad, and watch About Last Night... and sigh.