This is one of those entries that basically consists of me finding old letters and documenting them on here so that I can keep a literary scrapbook of different stages of my life…so when I’m old, there’s some record that I even existed. Without witnesses we all die. Anyway, I don’t know who this was to…I just know it was written at the end of last semester while I was still in the woods and no one, least of all myself, was sure if I was going to make it. I chopped some of it out b/c it was either too personal or not well written. Mostly I edited for poor, pedantic writing…so read on…but you probably won’t care.
I had written 25 pages prior to this but in my emotional frenzy, I ripped it all out and I ripped it all up. I’m in a practice room despite it being 10:30ish. Just me, the bass I’ve neglected to practice, this notebook and a discman. It’s been a long day. The kinda day that almost brings me to my knees, but not only that….the kinda day that would make me consider praying while I’m down there. But maybe that’s just to prove that I’m not a faithless bastard. I have faith. I have faith that people will fuck up. I have faith in bad luck. Maybe it’s cuz all I ever see is penny’s tails up. Like dead fish. Belly up in a tank. So here I am–listening to Ruby Tuesday and writing about not practicing. This is about as productive as a fat man exercising with a burger in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My counseling session today was a “getting your wisdom teeth pulled” kinda experience. Something you gotta get done, but, Jesus, it hurts like Hell while it’s happening. I just kept wanting to pull myself in from the proverbial rain…but it’s just too hard to hold yourself. I don’t want to admit that I’m mad at my mom. I don’t want to admit that my family hates each other. I don’t want to admit what I cannot yet accept. I’ve got a new and future scar on my arm that she’s not feeling. I’ve got a lump in my throat at the thought of going home. And the little girl that hangs around in my head and fills my mental calendar with days of infamy is sharpening her pencils. So you want the truth? Here it is…my parents hate each other, hate us, hate life in general and I hate myself but not them. Little Girl Lost. I keep having these terribly symbolic dreams lately. They piss me off. Tired and pissed off…what a nice cocktail of emotions. Usually I’m back on the farm. In the last one, my great uncle in the house with me…and the power goes out. I’m trying to navigate with only a candle. And I can sense that I’m almost bumping into that bastard. I find the rest of the family huddled in the living room and I’m begging them to make him leave. They just ignore me. Me vs. Him. Me vs. Them. I get what it means. And furthermore, I get pissed off. I think about how I should’ve been protected but I wasn’t. They just let him get me…(more here that I do not wish to include…boring and not at all well written) Oh Goddam. I hate these parasitic memories, scratching at the surfce. I don’t remember a lot of what happened in the trailer with my uncle. Some of it I do and that’s enough. It’s been enough to keep me up at night for over 16 years. I remember playing “Red Riding Hood” in his trailer, magnifying his facial features with a magnifying glass. Our own little theater. I remember laughing till my side hurts…then a transition is missing. The bridge burns. The frames slide out of focus. Something. I don’t know, the memory is gone. Next thing I know, I’m being punished and rewarded. It’s an “I say punished-he thinks otherwise” kinda deal. What did I do? What didn’t I do? I don’t know. The boundaries are gone. I’m gone. My wrists are small enough to fit in one of his hands. It is all too unfair. Damn the odds. He hates me while he loves me….(more here) I’m just…I’m worn out. You can only patch a tire so many times. I’m pretty sure that my prof thinks that I’m one boat short of a shipwreck. One olive short of a martini. One card short of a full deck. And all those other pleasant ways of saying crazy. He asked me how I was doing and for some reason, I just shattered. “Oh..oh..I..um, yeah. I’m alright.” I was so taken aback. I don’t why I should’ve been. I burst into his office to pick up my paper, with no blood in my face, dark circles under my eyes, bloodshot eyes and this roaming sadness upon my face. I just looked ungrounded. Not well. he started to talk to me and I made some joke and rushed my way out. I knew for some reason if I stood there 5 minutes more, I’d tell him everything. Fill an encyclopedia of the A to Z of Roxanne Dixon. I don’t know why. He reminds me of Mrs. Barber, I guess and that was common fare for us. God, I miss her. Is that sick and sad? Yes. But I had to find a mother somewhere.
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