1/15/01

my dreams have been turbulence. crashing lethal tidal waves, stalkers, being held hostage, being attacked by electric eels, being hunted by ritualistic cannibals, mutilated infants, watching my family die. i’ve witnessed my mother being shot to death from behind and my little sister torn apart by a cult in one dream, then pulled through a windshield and thrown into the street to her demise in another. i wake up calling out, short of breath, shaking my head in attempt to clear my mind of the vivid images. i can’t get rid of them. they’re branded into my mind, and they flash before my eyes without warning at the most random of times, as if i were having suppressed anxieties of events that have actually occurred. what frightens me most are not the nightmares themselves, but the fact that i’m capable of creating such things. i have somehow bred a monster into my mind that holds me surrender in my sleep, subjecting me to its very own staple of torture. i have no idea how to slay the beast now that it has been released. maybe i really should quit watching faces of death videos...

i never had anyone outside of my immediate family be there for me as i was growing up. even my extended family was either physically too far away or distanced in other ways to give a damn about my siblings or me. there has only been one exception, and i’ve been eternally grateful for them. i fully realize that having not only a brother and mother, but also two people who were not obligated to care for me in any form whatsoever yet for some reason still did is having four more people than many others ever get. they were my next door neighbors, bettie and ray smith, an older couple whose two sons had grown up and moved away to pursue hunting instead of families, leaving the smiths with no grandchildren. they adopted us as their own instead. mrs. smith was forever dusted in flour from endless doll cakes and sprinkled cookies that she would bake with me. we would spend days together making intricate trinkets and crafts, constantly lavishing me with surprises and toys and shopping expenditures. mr. smith was a gentle old man very much in love with nature who would spend his days quietly watching and feeding birds and telling mesmerizing stories. they were both much more my grandparents than my biological grandparents ever were, and gave me more than i can possibly express. not only in their gifts and spoiling, which i was too poor to have ever had a chance of experiencing without them, but in their unselfish benevolence. they gave without ever wanting anything in return and took us into their hearts warmly and acceptingly. they alone taught me the difference between family and relatives.

mr. smith is dying.

heartbreak doesn’t begin to do justice to the painful shambles left in my chest from this knowledge. he has incurable cancer that has finally worked its way into his brain, and there’s nothing more the doctors can do. there’s nothing more any of us can do. i went to see the smiths for xmas over break, and in many ways, everything seemed the same. the smells of sugar throughout the house, the bird calling books stacked on the table, the tiny tree adorned with handmade ornaments, the young smiles on aging faces. but it was still different. there was another unseen figure with us chatting at the kitchen table, lounging with us in the living room, saying farewells on the porch; a figure that will be taking mr. smith from us all shortly. it was unspoken knowledge. we all talked about plans for next year as if we would all live forever, knowing very well that we were only lying about the beautiful times ahead that would never come.

i’m going to miss you so very much. you’ll never even know. i’ll think of you every time i hear the birds sing. promise.

my hair is “vampire red.” it’s usually down, wet (i’m too lazy to dry it), with a few tiny braids amidst it. everywhere i go, strangers reach out to touch it or ask me where i got it done (crissy’s bathroom, fyi) or to just tell me how much they like it. i leave trails of fiery threads everywhere i go; there are collections forming in the sink and shower. i pick up handfuls every time i pass through, but as soon as i turn around, there’s more. they rejuvenate. there are also pink stains forming all over the place. my pillow case, white minor threat t-shirt and fingertips can testify to my dyed hair.

i’d been thinking about an ex a lot lately. i had started to miss him; not being with him, just him in general. i’d find myself just wanting to call him up to see what’s going on or to tell him about this new band i heard or to ask him something about film or whatever. the last time i had spoken with him, he said that he would love to hear from me and would definitely write me back if i wrote him, blahblahblah. so i wrote him a letter one night, drunk with sloppy handwriting, ranting about stars and life and things of that nature that we once would have analyzed together for hours. he never wrote me back. so i called him. his answering machine picks up: *beep* “i miss you.” he never calls back. i finally heard from him again the other night, and i’m glad i finally did, but not because it was good to hear from him. in fact, it wasn’t. i had to carry the interlocution the whole time and there was still entirely too much dead end conversation and uncomfortable silences. but it did help me to realize once and for all that i really don’t miss him at all; we simply have nothing left to say to each other.

side by side in silence, without a single word . . . it’s the loudest sound i’ve ever heard.

so, i went to my former boss’s party the other night. standing on the balcony discussing the decay of music by over-production (one of my favorite topics of discussion; right up there with religion and politics) after three cups of everclear punch, more beer than i care to count, and two xanaxes, the ex boss appears. he starts pissing off the balcony, and his urine forms a fountain, going all over the place. he finishes up, then turns to me.

ex boss: ingi! i love you! want to see my penis?

me: uh, no.

ex boss: but ingi, i love you! you used to work for me!

me: so? “used” is the operatable word there.

he puts his cock away and tries to hug me, but he’s got some undistinguishable liquid on his shirt (piss? beer?) so i squirm away and he runs off.

former employee = penis privileges? is anyone else following this? i don’t get it . . .

more insane weather in the land of radford. last week was bitter cold with stinging winds and icy morning shuffles to class n the snow. today is warm and a too bright sun harassing me, open windows, light breeze and stifling classrooms. what’s going on here?

random:

1) we moved our furniture again. the room is still diminutive, but twice the size as it was. i was lost enough in here from the first time we changed everything, and now the confusion has doubled.

2) this absolutely rocks me. it’s funny as hell. or maybe i’m just a peculiar girl. either way.

3) a note found on my desk during the moving process:

"3:26 - kim says, 'naked!'
i say, 'what?'
but receive no answer."

hm . . .

4) word for the day: nakeddity

quote of the week: "but...it's gross in there!"