There is something exact in a moment before a wreck. Across the street, the way the paint on the shutters of a house peel away, much like the way you are peeled away from under a dashboard. Conceivably, you notice the concrete staircase, how it is crooked, cracked, crumbling; as you are yourself, lying there, a cracked and collapsed soul in a confused car. And you want to laugh; because it is all so very fantastic that you could find yourself, lying in abandoned pain, and notice the neglect of someone’s house, yet not your own “dwelling.” This is called disorder —the sad disrepair of your own judgment.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
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There's also something exact about that state of mental disrepair that transforms your house into grandma's attic, the cracks in the bathroom paint to a symbol of your rutted neurons, and the overhearing of an innocent conversation by your roommates into paranoid wonder. - Brianne
There is also something very clear that moment right before an accent almost more than three-dimensional as if someone has cleaned the windshield of your eyes.
Lovely thinking in this writing, writer . . . images chiseled almost from stone.
So that's what it is? disrepair of judgment.
Me: Crying, melting, "Run for your life, this place is emotionally hazardous. Get out while you can."
Anonym daughter: "Momma?"
Me: "Oh hi sweetie, how are you?"
Anonym daughter: "Uh, fine mom, how are you? Normal flip out or serious? Do I need to call someone?"
Me: Snot dripping from my nose. "No, normal, I'll be fine."
Anonym daughter: sliding onto the bed, wrapping her arms around my neck. "I love you momma."
Me: "How did I ever get such a kid like you?"
Anonym daughter: "Hot monkey love? Want a french fry?"
Me: "No, but I'll have a bite of that dog."
Goodness. I read your comment on Me Strauss. Are you Okay?
*Oh, wow. You just left me a message. We are kindred night owls looking over each other's work. That's fantastic.
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