Saturday, November 29, 2008
Woke up today with a splitting hangover. ate toast with crunchy peanut butter, a banana, and now I'm onto a can of cheap lemonade. I found that scratching my head makes me forget how bad I feel. I've got this spot on the back of my head. I think I must scratch it a lot, maybe when I'm nervous. It feels tender. I actually just drew blood. i might try to take a photo of it so you can see.
Friday, November 28, 2008
I was walking down the middle of the road. The way I always do when I'm scared. It was late at night. The trees were howling. And it was wet. All I could hear was the wind and the sound of my feet hitting the road. And my breath. I stopped because my shoe was rubbing against my heal. My sock had slipped down about ten minutes ago. I hadn't wanted to stop to fix it. But now I was getting a blister. I hate these fucking socks. No elastic.
I could see movement beyond the curtains, silhouettes of the rich people. The flashes of the television, the odd thumping of limp techno as I walked past. They always have to have the worst taste in music. It's like a pre requisite for owning a house in this area. I put my hand down my pants. It felt good. Warm. I thought about the Ramones. Great lyrics. True stories. These are the moments that make you forget about being cold, forget about feeling skittish.
There is one house that has always made me nervous. It's on the corner of the court with the dirt road. It's architecturally designed. Lots of glass. No curtains. An old couple live there. Sometimes you can see them in there at night, reading books or having dinner.
When I walked past I could see only him. He was wandering around wearing only a white singlet. His withered balls were out and flopping around like kids at a fair. He was lost in thought. At one point he knocked into a side table and sent a vase flying. It seemed to jolt him out of his daze. Yet all he did was clean up the glass and then just walk from room to room turning the lights on and off. I watched for about twenty minutes shivering in the cold until all I could think about was a cigarette and a warm shower. He seemed kind've sad and I was obsessed by the way his thing would swing around like it had a mind of its own. It was pretty big for an old guy too. But really really thin. Maybe as you get older it loses its bulk. After a while I got sick of him and left. Later that night I listened to these horribly cheesy electro Bossa Nova covers of Ramones songs on my headphones. I hated myself but couldn't help but sing along. The KKK Took My Baby Away was luscious and heartfelt. It must be terrible to lose a child like that. I fell asleep to Beat On The Brat on repeat. I dreamt strangely.