people are so fucked.

in other news, today is a bit better than yesterday.

yesterday i was hardly able to get out of bed save for a few hours when i got to hang out on line with kim and vika.

i downloaded the path to tranquility by the dalai lama hoping that it would bring me some peace in the dark mid-night hours, but ended up mostly listening to black coffee blues by rollins instead, and that did bring me peace of mind and a restless sleep.

i know he can be a total pud, but there is something about henry rollins' speaking voice that i find intensely calming. when i was a young teenager i had "big ugly mouth" on vinyl and i had put it on tape cassette so i could listen to it on repeat without having to get up. rollins and jello biafra spoken word were my friends late at night when i was first learning about being an insomniac and it was nice to lay in bed watching the ceiling fan in the almost pitchblack and finding myself in the same place, his voice calming me once again.

it was almost cellular memory, the smoke of the cigarette dark blue-grey while i listened, remembering the late nights in southern california when i would sit on my windowsil, my cigrette hand outside to get as little smoke inside my room as possible.

at one point i stubbed out my cigarette, set my ashtray on the counter above me and turned myself around on the bed so i could pet stuart while i listened. i stroked his foot one too many times and he caught my hand with his claws, one of them going deep enough into my pinky joint (on the inside-side of my hand) and my hand spasmed involuntarily and all i could do was let out a sqeak of pain and gently pull it out because it was so far down there that there is no way it was coming out on its own.

i just laid there and let the blood slide down into my palm and flexed my fingers to make them feel real again as rollins read tightlipped and angry, his voice soothing the dull red thud behind my eyes and at the back of my head.

i woke up like that, turned around on the bed, my arm hanging off the bed, the blood dried on my palm, stuart yawning lazily as i gently and warily rubbed his tummy good morning.

i licked clean my palm and laid in bed for a couple hours listening still, waiting for the parts my sleep made me miss.

i got out of bed, i checked email, i argued with myself about going out until i pretended i was someone else, someone who wanted to leave their apt and put on some clothes and headed out.

the air was cold and i instantly felt the vaseline slide off of my eyes as i walked around the neighborhood without any agenda.

a little girl bundled up, round, about 4.5 feet high, walked past me and ran up to her father, also round, also bundled up and wearing thick camouflage gloves. when they were about half a block ahead of me, she turned around, stuck her thumbs in her ears to make reindeer antlers of her fingers and stuck her tongue out at me as her father walked briskly ahead.

then she turned her back to me, stuck her ass out and shook it a few times as if tell me to kiss her ass, and ran ahead to once again try to keep up with her father.

i smiled but didn't laugh and walked to the garage where my car is parked and somehow, on auto-pilot, drove myself to the store, bought some food for the coming week and dinner for tonight, got gas for my car, bought cigarettes and a carwash and then, on auto-pilot, drove back to the garage and walked home.

i cleaned the dirty dishes that have been sitting on my tiny counter for the last week and i talked to stuart who is a champ about sensing my sadness and won't leave me alone for a minute when i am like this.

i cleaned my bathroom and i made new ice cubes and i am now settled in and feeling a bit better.

the darkness i fell into friday night which lasted through this afternoon was like walking along on the street and falling into a manhole you didn't see in front of you. it was debilitating and frightening and i worried that i wasn't going to come out for a long time, wasn't going to come out until i got out of this state, got away from the loneliness of it, the shame of having been abandoned, the shame of feeling unlovable, unlikable, unreal and worth nothing.

the sadness and solitude is not romantic and it is not interesting, it does not make for good art or good writing or anything else of value other than pain.

i can't remember the last time i was hugged or held close by anyone, and i can feel the isolation here damaging parts of me that i have so slowly over the years healed, and it scares me to death.

i have to believe that they aren't dead, that i will be ok when i am away from here, that there are better things for me, that there are people who want me around and who care.

i know that it's so, i tell myself this when i am laying in the fetal position rocking back and forth, too sad to even cry.

i make the greatest effort to keep my head above water because i know that this part of my life will end, that i will get out of here, that things will be brighter ahead.

but what i wouldn't give for a friend that i can hold, or that will hold me, that knows me well and loves me anyway.

this has been the hardest six months of my life in a long long time, and i only hope that it really is making me stronger, better, more equipped to deal with the world and make the life that i want.

and i can only hope that because i made a mistake by coming here doesn't mean that i have fucked up the rest of it. and that because i have been left again, unceremoniously and without explanation, doesn't mean that this is how my life will always be, that i will be able to depend on people to be there for me, that they will be able to depend on me.