the day before yesterday, at d. herzog's funeral with holly and aaron and my brother:
Oh what a weird month it has been, complicated, personal, silent. but now I'm writing. I have a cold, and I'm smoking opium from a one-hitter near an open window, the breeze brrring my legs, tippety-typing this. I drank Theraflu this morning to help with my cold, and I would heartily recommend it for everyone that likes the taste of lemon-limed gatorade left outside of a nuclear power plant in a rusty bucket for three years. I'm listening to skinny puppy. so, september?
Anthony and I walked to swede hill park earlier in the evening, and as we jabbed each other with stick fragments and spoke sparse words with the half-moon above, a tall, cadaverous woman clumsily tripped by in ridiculous heels. Once she spotted us sitting on the bench, she stumbled over and plopped down next to us.
"what road's this?" she asked, gesturing into outer space. As I looked at the three roads that all criss-crossed nearbye and tried to figure which one she meant, she loudly squawked "I'm lookin' for money, by the way! Do you have any change?"
"I don't," Anthony said.
"I do," I said stupidly. "But she does," Anthony said gracefully. I reached into my purse and pulled out a folded bill. "Here," I said, Ayn Rand scowling at me from above and Jesus nodding benevolently from somewhere very far away. She snatched it from me and quickly tripped away after confirming that denny's was, in fact, the nearest restaraunt from the park. I felt hurt by how entitled she acted, and I remembered the time that I was fourteen, weekending in Paris with my mother and bored silly by all of the flea markets she combed through. We had been walking for hours and I was parched and my mother handed me a few francs for water and waved me away impatiently as she examined some Russian night-vision goggles. I skipped to the square where the vendors were, but as I waited in line a gypsy stumbled up, her filthy baby clutched to her chest and covered in a rag, and she jabbed her hand into my chest. and as she glared at me she mumbled something about money, si vous plaintain, pease, please. I gave her the money I had for my water and sat on a bench, watching the people come and go. I watched the woman bother others, and others, and work her way around the square until she was standing directly in front of me again. Her hand shot out and she fixed me with her vulture's eye. "Money!" She declared.
"I don't have any more," I said incredulously, didn't she remember me, why was I so naive? and I am naive still.
As I was thinking about this, I heard the clip clop clip of her absurd heels, and I saw the shiny sheen of her dress, and I heard her strident voice. "what the fuck?" Anthony mumbled to my left.
"He got me, he got me!" She was wailing. She ploppled down beside us again. "This man, and he was black, tackled me in that dark alley! They need lights! And he pulled me down and he took my money, he took my money and he hurt my back! Look, I have goosebumps even!" She gestured dramatically to her legs, which were indeed pallid with pimples, and I stared in disbelief.
"I'm sorry," I said delicately. She bent down and hugged her knees, wailing dramatically "he took my money, he took my goddamned money! Excuse my language! I wanted to go to denny's and get something to eat, I thought about going into someone's house and calling the po-lice but I was so worried, and look, I hurt my back..."
I looked at Anthony and shrugged helplessly. I assumed that her maudlin theatrics were simply to wring a few more dollars from my vulnerable heart, yet I felt sorry for her, in her silver dress, with her crinkled hair, her lined face, she had nowhere to go. I dished out a handfull of change and gave it to her, and her hands eagerly plunged into it to count it.
"Look, there are some stickers in there, too," I said encouragingly. She glanced up and her eye fixed on my pack of camels.
"Can I have a cigarette?" She asked. I handed her one and Anthony and I made excuses to leave and walked away.
"There wasn't any man," Anthony said delicately, and I nodded. and what a silly story this must seem, with me magnanimously handing out my abundant dollars to the poor, unrefined proletarians. blah blah, blah.
Serious, studious September, the soft-spongy septum of an otherwise otherworldly time, parrot funeral, person funeral, job interviews and band practice. Holly visited this weekend so that she could go to the funeral with me on Monday afternoon. Here is a picture of Holly:
On Monday we drove to Fredericksburg to the funeral, and we met Aaron for lunch. I've known Aaron for seven years, I went to high school with him, and sometimes we're great friends and sometimes we hate eachother. Here is a picture of Aaron (I have no idea why he looks like he just descended from a celestial sky):
After the funeral, we found my brother, Christopher, 20, the opposite of me in practically every way. Yet we are affectionate and were inseparable until my father died. We all walked to the park, and Christopher read a book about religion and Holly drew on Aaron's arm and I climbed up a young oak tree and was bitten by tree-ants. Here is a picture of Christopher, my own flesh and blood:
In my mind, which has felt bruised this month, all I have to show for September are the spurned embers of spurious calendar squares. But here are some things that happened this month. There was an ice cream creatures show, here is a picture from that:
I sat on the front porch a lot, talking with Shaun and Anthony and Holly (who took this picture):
I'll write more often from now on.
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