Miles of my nerves withstood dissolution yesterday, but eventually they cracked under vile pressure, shattering my hold on composure. It took her five hours, but she made me cry. I wonder what happened to her to lack honour, like the hatch was opened and heart taken from her. When it was done, I left feeling bathed in hate, hostility had soaked into my hair, my flesh, this impermeable wash of attack. When it was over.
It’s over.
I walked home the long way, catching the train from Granville to Broadway, because I was needing people, needing family. Devon waved to me, walking the other way along the platform. I’ve never seen him with his hair back and it lifted me a little, just a smile carving my face into friendliness. I need my home to be people again, I feel single and sick.
Keely was outside J.J. Bean chattering with a sweet blond woman whose name I already have forgotten. A giant bear hug of a girl, Keely is cheerful and welcoming. I went along with her grocery shopping and we caught up on everyone I never see anymore. I laughed when I found out that everyone’s slept with Ali and that everyone complains. Our old group lays in ruins now, people vanishing or drug fucking themselves out of being people. We sat in her livingroom and played with the cats, trying to pinpoint the day when the the old world lost it’s face. The old night still runs but we never go. No-one ever does. I remember when our ravers were happy, when there was something happening there that was special. It’s a little like little Sean and tall Micheal, they were the Angels of the House of Slack that we still search for. If we’re lucky we’ll find them one day. Walking down the street, they’ll call out our name and we’ll turn to face the glory of the personal god Joy.
I need to sleep for more than three hours every night.
She walked me almost the whole way home, music in my soul. Our hands and feet show us as happy people, weaving patterns in silly swirls down the river street. Water conversation, rippling through shops and pet food and organic fluctuations of on-topic fate. I’ve missed being with people so free with their form. I miss the people who cuddle as an inaction, like I do. I left her in the courtyard next to Sweet Cherabim, the both of us singing After Midnight as we faded out of earshot. Robin was outside looking cold when I walked up. I don’t know how long he’d been waiting, but James was inside. Friends were on-line to open chatwindow arms in welcome. Concern chained to keyboards, I fell into my chair exhausted, glad for once they couldn’t see me. Ray arrived, and everyone said I looked sick. I was, I am. I felt like I’d walked into the Oven that Nebuchadnezzar built. His name means tears and groans of judgment. His name had been carved into every inch of my bones like the name of Rama in the white monkey.
Ghost in the Machine helped. Innocence devouring me whole, I’m beginning to suspect that I’ve developed a mild fetish for good sci-fi. Aiden and Ray and Robin and I went to Taffs first, Aiden requiring an escape as his girl Nicole was across the street at the Tea Party as the soundguys ex-girlfriend.
Now I go to meet with Silva for the evening. De-toxify the pains of nasty interaction with love and bakery.
Looks like Monday I leave for L.A.