Lying on the floor of the living room, a quilted blanket for a king-sized bed was wrapped over me and the large vent that runs across the bottom stair. Dad taught me this trick, called it “hogging the air”, and the blanket slighty balloons unless the weave is weak. I had tried to get up but was cold and tired this morning, so I laid down in front of the hot air and temporarily returned to slumber. Even my cat and dog huddled against me; it feels that nice. I’d share this, highly recommended, but everyone’s always set off to do what they do. And even if they were available, it’s unlikely for me to answer the door, anyway (I’d have to really like you). But it is a treat; you can hear the clothes tumbling in the dryer, down in the basement.
Dread for many things, tried to win the day. I couldn’t scoup mashed cauliflower onto my plate without thinking about this rain and grey sky. With one of those giant, plastic claw-things holding my hair up in a tangled mess, I bent over a chair that has had the back completely broken off by a brother’s fit. A few hours scribbling there, into a notebook about how Judas may not have intended such a horrible betrayal to Jesus.
Who cares? It’s just that I couldn’t get over how he’d greeted him – handed him over – with a kiss. Any normal person will tell me how casual of a gesture it was back then, and how meaningless it still is, today. I wanted to lie in front of the heater after that, but hit the treadmill instead.
A blanket. A concept. Leave no balloon inflated.
60 minutes. 400-something calories murdered. It felt so good to cool off outside so I kept on going for another three miles. Kind of a foolish move: one dead kitty, numb arm, and a raw-rubbed spot on my foot. I’d hate to see my bad outlook, on today.
My little bundles of sanctuary, The Twins, have had hard times. I guess Adam tried to kill himself earlier this month and was in the hospital. Now he’s home, suspended for vandalism. Haven’t heard from Nick…or, Nick hasn’t heard from me. I’ve really fucked up, there. A little black-haired boy who shows up in my dreams with his wide, brown eyes….always to help, or represent nothing but goodness…has been hurting enough to do something like that… Horrible, horrible. It makes me wonder what he’s fighting, and what his…15? year-old hell, looks like. Is he depressed? Is he gay? Is he heartbroken? What can I do?
Ice sliding off the metal roof…
scaring me to death.