The Beach Boys on repeat becomes, for me, a method of coping. If Brian Wilson were forced to sing and re-sing for me his vocal cords would be dry and frayed like a violin bow without resin. The thing that kills me the most is how much we must all fake it. I’m faking it now. When they say, “get over it,” do they really mean, “forget it”? Is getting under it part of getting over it? What if God isn’t the only one who knows what I’d be?
Do you know what it’s like when you have a glass of orange juice, finish it, then neglect to wash the glass and refill it with apple juice? The acidic qualities of the orange juice, stray bits of pulp, they all come through with the apple and make a strange cocktail. That’s how I envision lovers upon lovers in a lifetime. The next becoming more and more of a cocktail with bitter—and sweet—remains of the lover before. The final being nowhere near as pure as the first. Or maybe nowhere near as pure as the third, or fourth. Perhaps after the first couple I still retained the energy to wash the glass before pouring a new one. But my energy, I fear, is depleting. I’m on my way to drinking cocktail after cocktail.
This is the third time I’ve listened to Pet Sounds today, it’s 11:44, I’ve been awake something like four hours. Three times in four hours. A bow without resin. Powder flying, strings scratching, notes resound with impurity.
Adam ordered me a sandwich. That’s the kind of grace I need. Shantell smiled bigger than big, that’s the kind of grace I need. I slept on a cold pillow that smelled like someone else’s hair. I opened the window to hear the inconsistent drops of the gutter. A mountain of pillows laid beside me all night trying to breathe. A fan whistled a monotone tune it wished was a lullaby. Vodka nourished me. The blankets could be held tight but not tight enough.
I dreamt of grocery shopping, I think. I rolled and rolled, over and over. I dreamt, I think, of grocery shopping. The domestic kind, “Do we need this, honey?” That sort. “No, we’ve already got some.” You know the kind. “And what about this?” With the inevitable, “Well, is it on sale? We don’t really need it.” And the produce. Looking for the unbruised fruits but finding none. Settling, finally, for only the mildly bruised. Settling for the mildly bruised.
Here’s a secret. Sometimes I walk grocery stores late at night, early in the morning, mid-day. I don’t purchase a thing. I just walk down the aisles to see how much all the items wish I’d purchase them. I like the way their packages try to lure me in—they just want me so bad. Except the cheese, the cheese never tries too hard. It smells funny and is wrapped in clear plastic. But it doesn’t need to look nice, right? It’s cheese, it knows someone will buy it. Same with the milk. And the eggs. It’s only the packaged cereals, snacks, crackers, cookies—the things we don’t need that want me to buy them so badly. I think I dreamt of grocery shopping last night.
Let us quickly assess the state of my being:
Are you here?
Are you?
Are you breathing?
Slowly.
Did you sleep well?
Define well.
Who woke you up this morning?
Am I awake?
What time is it?
11:56
What day is it?
January 9, 2010
Anywhere but here would be nice,
But maybe what I mean is I quit,
Or maybe let’s fall and only sleep,
And let’s stop trying—
Only let come what may.
I mean, really, anywhere but here still
Has me me me
Perhaps I mean anywhere but here
Or there—nowhere.
