old pictures, new questions

Most of the time, I really don't feel anything. Other times it comes from nowhere. I get so jealous of everyone who has parents that I can't stand it. And I feel miserable and self-pitying and hateful. And it's such a strange, nebulous hate--I had a mother and then I didn't. Had a father, or at least a ghost of him, and now I have a possible. All kept at such a distance.

Found this picture of my mother and I from Christmas, 1993. She looks like herself but not quite. And there I am so small. People always tell me what a sweet child I was. I worry that I'm becoming one of those mean, embittered people. I want to stay sweet but there's so much against me. How earnest how determined I am to stay sweet.

I think about calling William Alexander all the time, but I never find the words. I've got a parent that won't speak to me and an almost-parent that I can't speak to. I don't know where this leaves me. Orphan, bastard, mystery-that-everybody-knows.

Most of the time, I really don't feel anything. Other times, all my hurt blooms into hate and I want to destroy the great maternal effigies.

notes on romantic miscellanea & ezra lb.

Ernest Hemingway taught Ezra Pound to box.

Today: M's depressive episode only lasted an hour or so. Rain and too much gray. He's been numbing the symptoms but not the root. I didn't cry. Seems unfair to get all weepy whenever he's hurting. Which is a lot. Increasingly. Enough on that. Things fall apart and reassemble in a maddeningly tidy sort of way. Coffee afterwards. Kept conversation light to avoid being crushed.

Slept on a parking deck.

Marveled at the hysteria that is The Super Bowl.

Book exchange. I bought M FearAndLoathingInLasVegas and he bought Pound's Personae for me. Asked me to read aloud to him as we drove. Spring...Too long...Gongula. For some reason, Night-drives always strike me as poignant.

(Rain, scattered light, sexual tension and modern tempers. What else is there?)

Bought ninety-nine cent mason jars. M admits he likes shopping with me because the things we buy become relics of whatever we put into each other. I thought on this for a while. Humans are the only animals that covet, acquire, and give meaning to unecessary things. It's really strange how we take objects and pour ourselves into them so that the vessel becomes indiscernable from the thing itself. Romantic miscellanea. Everyone building their own little histories out of mere things.


Oh and Ezra never did get that left hook.