Am I Sorry? Am I Blue?
Am I Sorry? Am I Blue?
The humiliation of begging from Mom, who takes the opportunity to read me off. To read me off for being, for admitting to being suicidal. How could I have come from such cold & odious people. Was it their hard lives? Maybe. They don't believe in me. Well, why should they, nobody else does.
And still, out of love or a sense of responsibility, she sent me enough money to pay rent & live. So I have food—ice cream—& yes, after 5 days abstaining, I bought cigarettes, and smoked my usual 5 last night. And I didn't feel any worse this morning.
I went to Dr. S's office Monday morning to borrow 20 from Bob & Caro via Karen—and I weighed 129 pounds. I lost 6. Which goes to show, I must burn 3000+ calories a day. Yesterday I took my BP at the machine: 112/59, p 18. No wonder I feel my blood sloshing around inside me.
No earthquakes. I sleep too well. I still would like to be gone, but I don't think burning charcoal is sure. You know I'd hate to wake up blind.
I've been threatened with a job in Probation & have sent my resume to everybody I could think of. Larry F. called me back with a half-time job that would be perfect if I didn't need full time right now.
Oh, ach...I can think about working with equanimity if I don’t think about getting up in the morning. I applied at UW/Harborview & Swedish. Last night I had coffee with Guy. V. enjoyable. I wish he'd be more accessible, but I guess Doug has to be unavailable for him to venture forth (for the likes of me, anyway).
Lovely days. Sunny with a cool breeze. In some ways I feel I have ruined my milieu by my sufferings. As if misery splashes out & blights everything.
Places where you've been unhappy...an essay?
B.M. *Bux 8/8/01
Blind Ned & the Hungry Man
Two of my unfavorite beggars—they've both been working Broadway for at least 10 years, maybe 20. Then Hungry Man ("Spare any change for a Hungry Man?") has gotten fat in the face & seems marginally less psychotic than he used to. Ned has gotten rather ratty & sometimes has signs of injuries—foot in a brace, cuts & scrapes, his white cane broken & taped together.
I don't give anybody money any more—though I wanted to give some to that skinny boy playing wonderful bottleneck guitar. Oh, if only I had a ton of money. I'd have so much fun. No, I wouldn't buy a fancy car. I'd get out of Seattle, I think.
I'm getting really sick of looking at people with pierced faces & elongated earlobes, also tattoos. Next we need scarification. Yeah, chevrons etched into your cheeks.
B.M.Starbux 8/10/01
What Cheer?
Handsome lad walks out of the BelRay apartments on Republican & says "Hi" to me. I squint: "Huh" (you talking to me?) Oh, it turns out he's one of my boys from the Starbucks on Broadway.
It's been a while since a cute boy has said Hi to me. Fun. I'll have to go back to the Broadway Starb's & tip him.
Did I mention my bus trip yesterday? All the Hispanic Mamas & kids getting off the 28 & jaywalking across four lanes to the SHA? And me right behind em. Then the 44 with: a girl wearing a turban made of 6 yards of bedspread. The old hippy chick in purple (not me!) The ugly haircuts (not me!) (well, maybe). The descent into Ballard.
I got off the bus & turned around & there was Inn Bin, the restaurant Fred used to torture me at. (One of them). And awful little houses & awful old white people who didn't know where SHA was (a long way, it turned out).
Then, the worst bus people of all on the 10 coming back up the hill from downtown. Rollicking spades in the back laughing at the loud, obnoxious Brooklyn-accented stinky guy sitting in the first seat with his feet out in the aisle. "Why should I be quiet? Do you want me to just sit here and be depressed?" at shout volume, and all the colored folk yokking it up. And small solemnly smiling Asians tippy-toeing by. They don't want trouble. They've had trouble.
I got off several stops early & walked. Even under a blazing sun, it was preferable.
BM *Bux 8/11/01
Filched, rutilant. Wisped, flocculant
The day with a taste of – something bitter. Maybe because I slept far away on the border between nod & nada. Then I had to come back & it was Sunday & I had nothing to do. Nothing I wanted to do. And it was hot too. So I just hung around, intending to go check my email—later, and read a silly (but not too silly) book about the Rolling Stones. And relived my disappointing youth. (Still, more fun in most ways than my disappointed dotage.) And didn't go check email because I have infected the Community Center with my bitter sorrows. (I've infected most everywhere I've been with my bitter sorrows.)
I wrote one sentence. I had hot flashes (more ripples than flashes). And felt just the ittiest-bit suicidal.
One good thing (& a very good thing it was too) was Mom called to tell me if I need more money, they'll give, so don't worry. Which was nice—she hadn't gotten my letter. I told her what I'd been up to.
She told me: There was bust down at the creek—Crystal-Jane's friends making meth. Olive's property is being foreclosed, by the State (?). Olive was transferred from her nursing home to Highline Hospital & she was on suicide watch.
I finally went out at 5 with the sun just over the yard-arm & clouds puffing along here & there. Curly on the top & dropping in wisps below. The sky had that summer glitter that makes us expect thunderstorms. When the sun disappeared into a cloud that looked a lot like Cleopatra’s barge carved from meringue, it cooled just the right amount. Aah, I said. Aah.
In Volunteer Park I ran in Jackie who had a scab on his lip. "You been kissing the pavement again, boy?" I said. He told me they've got a new store on First Hill & I should come on up.
B.M. *bux 8/12/01
Last Free Day — Shuddering with Horror
If you can count to One, you can count a blessing. Awful job (?) (Yes!) — Well, tomorrow is Tuesday already. And by the time that day's misery is over, there'll be only 3 more days to go.
I suppose all the phone messages in Marian's Voicemail were joggling promiscuously.
But knowing I have to go to work (in Probation!) tomorrow has ruined today for me. Tho, all Truth Be Told, I haven't really written for a week.
I might as well have kissed it all off. Instead of hanging around (not literally), ready to go take my place in society. Termagant. Gent.
Oh god, it's going to be horrible — and endless. Let me count the dollars. $100-plus a day. OK. Don't hyperventilate. Don't shriek. What I've actually been doing is sagging. And wrinkling.
Don’t tell me not to do that.
What am I going to do?
What?
BM *bucks 8/13/01
The humiliation of begging from Mom, who takes the opportunity to read me off. To read me off for being, for admitting to being suicidal. How could I have come from such cold & odious people. Was it their hard lives? Maybe. They don't believe in me. Well, why should they, nobody else does.
And still, out of love or a sense of responsibility, she sent me enough money to pay rent & live. So I have food—ice cream—& yes, after 5 days abstaining, I bought cigarettes, and smoked my usual 5 last night. And I didn't feel any worse this morning.
I went to Dr. S's office Monday morning to borrow 20 from Bob & Caro via Karen—and I weighed 129 pounds. I lost 6. Which goes to show, I must burn 3000+ calories a day. Yesterday I took my BP at the machine: 112/59, p 18. No wonder I feel my blood sloshing around inside me.
No earthquakes. I sleep too well. I still would like to be gone, but I don't think burning charcoal is sure. You know I'd hate to wake up blind.
I've been threatened with a job in Probation & have sent my resume to everybody I could think of. Larry F. called me back with a half-time job that would be perfect if I didn't need full time right now.
Oh, ach...I can think about working with equanimity if I don’t think about getting up in the morning. I applied at UW/Harborview & Swedish. Last night I had coffee with Guy. V. enjoyable. I wish he'd be more accessible, but I guess Doug has to be unavailable for him to venture forth (for the likes of me, anyway).
Lovely days. Sunny with a cool breeze. In some ways I feel I have ruined my milieu by my sufferings. As if misery splashes out & blights everything.
Places where you've been unhappy...an essay?
B.M. *Bux 8/8/01
Blind Ned & the Hungry Man
Two of my unfavorite beggars—they've both been working Broadway for at least 10 years, maybe 20. Then Hungry Man ("Spare any change for a Hungry Man?") has gotten fat in the face & seems marginally less psychotic than he used to. Ned has gotten rather ratty & sometimes has signs of injuries—foot in a brace, cuts & scrapes, his white cane broken & taped together.
I don't give anybody money any more—though I wanted to give some to that skinny boy playing wonderful bottleneck guitar. Oh, if only I had a ton of money. I'd have so much fun. No, I wouldn't buy a fancy car. I'd get out of Seattle, I think.
I'm getting really sick of looking at people with pierced faces & elongated earlobes, also tattoos. Next we need scarification. Yeah, chevrons etched into your cheeks.
B.M.Starbux 8/10/01
What Cheer?
Handsome lad walks out of the BelRay apartments on Republican & says "Hi" to me. I squint: "Huh" (you talking to me?) Oh, it turns out he's one of my boys from the Starbucks on Broadway.
It's been a while since a cute boy has said Hi to me. Fun. I'll have to go back to the Broadway Starb's & tip him.
Did I mention my bus trip yesterday? All the Hispanic Mamas & kids getting off the 28 & jaywalking across four lanes to the SHA? And me right behind em. Then the 44 with: a girl wearing a turban made of 6 yards of bedspread. The old hippy chick in purple (not me!) The ugly haircuts (not me!) (well, maybe). The descent into Ballard.
I got off the bus & turned around & there was Inn Bin, the restaurant Fred used to torture me at. (One of them). And awful little houses & awful old white people who didn't know where SHA was (a long way, it turned out).
Then, the worst bus people of all on the 10 coming back up the hill from downtown. Rollicking spades in the back laughing at the loud, obnoxious Brooklyn-accented stinky guy sitting in the first seat with his feet out in the aisle. "Why should I be quiet? Do you want me to just sit here and be depressed?" at shout volume, and all the colored folk yokking it up. And small solemnly smiling Asians tippy-toeing by. They don't want trouble. They've had trouble.
I got off several stops early & walked. Even under a blazing sun, it was preferable.
BM *Bux 8/11/01
Filched, rutilant. Wisped, flocculant
The day with a taste of – something bitter. Maybe because I slept far away on the border between nod & nada. Then I had to come back & it was Sunday & I had nothing to do. Nothing I wanted to do. And it was hot too. So I just hung around, intending to go check my email—later, and read a silly (but not too silly) book about the Rolling Stones. And relived my disappointing youth. (Still, more fun in most ways than my disappointed dotage.) And didn't go check email because I have infected the Community Center with my bitter sorrows. (I've infected most everywhere I've been with my bitter sorrows.)
I wrote one sentence. I had hot flashes (more ripples than flashes). And felt just the ittiest-bit suicidal.
One good thing (& a very good thing it was too) was Mom called to tell me if I need more money, they'll give, so don't worry. Which was nice—she hadn't gotten my letter. I told her what I'd been up to.
She told me: There was bust down at the creek—Crystal-Jane's friends making meth. Olive's property is being foreclosed, by the State (?). Olive was transferred from her nursing home to Highline Hospital & she was on suicide watch.
I finally went out at 5 with the sun just over the yard-arm & clouds puffing along here & there. Curly on the top & dropping in wisps below. The sky had that summer glitter that makes us expect thunderstorms. When the sun disappeared into a cloud that looked a lot like Cleopatra’s barge carved from meringue, it cooled just the right amount. Aah, I said. Aah.
In Volunteer Park I ran in Jackie who had a scab on his lip. "You been kissing the pavement again, boy?" I said. He told me they've got a new store on First Hill & I should come on up.
B.M. *bux 8/12/01
Last Free Day — Shuddering with Horror
If you can count to One, you can count a blessing. Awful job (?) (Yes!) — Well, tomorrow is Tuesday already. And by the time that day's misery is over, there'll be only 3 more days to go.
I suppose all the phone messages in Marian's Voicemail were joggling promiscuously.
But knowing I have to go to work (in Probation!) tomorrow has ruined today for me. Tho, all Truth Be Told, I haven't really written for a week.
I might as well have kissed it all off. Instead of hanging around (not literally), ready to go take my place in society. Termagant. Gent.
Oh god, it's going to be horrible — and endless. Let me count the dollars. $100-plus a day. OK. Don't hyperventilate. Don't shriek. What I've actually been doing is sagging. And wrinkling.
Don’t tell me not to do that.
What am I going to do?
What?
BM *bucks 8/13/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:06 PM
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