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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-05-14, 1:38 a.m.

sunburn, peeling

��������� �����fog tonight. the rain's gone. the parking lots are fast & black. woodward is semi-lit from within, with the new advent of some summer camps. this building sleeps. my roommate, travis, showed up tonight, and i didn't expect him to. it had been three days.

reInventing myself in the worst possible way, as i explained in an email to lauren tonight. dim lights, a cottonmouth. scatterbrained, wishing i didn't have to have glasses. tiled flooring. i'm unused to it.

why am i so unhappy with myself? there is no answer. void. i feel like a car that keeps starting up but never catching the ignition. applying to a movie theatre tomorrow for a job. tara works there. i worry these keys are too loud and will wake travis. his side of the room is very bare. today i decided he wasn't coming and sort of ... took over. felt bad about it later, though, when he did show up. so many changes. jason, tonight, on a walk down to 7-11. sometimes i think i underestimated my friendship with jason simply because we lived with one another. "i think you need some cheese," he said. i was staring at the tv. in his and asa's room. downthehall. so we walk down to 7-11 in the fog. i explain my neurotic tendencies in terms of the bolgias of dante's inferno. circle 1, circle 2, circle 3 ... malebolge. cocytus. all horrible names, names that stick in your throat like chicken bones. gag. sitting here, braving my brain. "i never thought it before, but i think you really do need a single," he said. "i don't even think you'll be happy living with corey." and i have to consider. corey and i get along, and will. but i hate imposing my behaviourisms on others. i am emotional. and i hate it.

"i don't want to be .. emotional over stupid things," i tell jason. evading the large puddle, staring into the streetlight. a large truck passes. "it's not .. you know? i want to be the man, i want to be male, i hate getting emotional - "

"shut up. we do not live in the ... 1600s, there's no stereotype."

"i know, but - "

"no, shut up - " the conversation continued after a subdued silence. sitting in his room with the red light, the red blanket. the sink-chair. all remnants, floating around from robie423. watching the second-to-last episode of buffy with him and anthony. flitting between that room and kristin's room down the hall further. an odd feeling of being shuttered out from my own room. wondering. i will make this work. i will.

"i never imagined myself having a daily job," jason said.

"most of us probably will end up in deadend jobs," i replied. contemplatively licking ben and jerry's from my plastic spoon. "that's the tragedy of middle-class america. society tells us (i hate sentences that start that way) that we have to have a routine, make money, to be efficient, functioning members of the world at large. and the worst thing is, i think we all secretly want it."

the nanny, on the tv. we don't have a tv in this room. tb, though. tuberculosis of the spirit. ha. the show reminding me of the past. sitting on the faded couch with my parents and sister. dog under the coffee-table. it ends, beth gets up and kisses, kisses, rubs dog on head, goodnights, and goes off to bed. school in the morning. it's monday night. next is everybody loves raymond. i stretch out on the couch. or get up and go to my room, too, to sit on the computer all night long.

... all night long.

jump little children, say goodnight. [i wish that i could hear you say goodnight]

brenda kahn, christopher says. [christopher says, i won�t be needing you - the sun is shining grey, and I think you�ve done your best ... now get up and get dressed]

151am and the door is locked. heavy metal, handle that clicks like an obstreporous piece of machinery. indignance. the blinds are pulled. fog rolls on.

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�SEH