December journalings (because I hardly ever immediately transcribe)
So you missed what you wanted to do, which was go to a modern dance show--they let you look in but you didn’t know what the friendofafriend with the tickets looked like--outside you fall in love with yourself in an orange lit mirror like rosie did in New Mexico on acid once, only yours is just an instant (afraid of approaching the lattice of self-reference, are we? Vaguely frightened of where creativity stops and delusion begins), darkness descending, the absence of attention span, the society of an endless chronicity. She's disappeared again. Most of the time you drink you think of her. "hard wired to think she's a failure." She's usually somewhere in California. You sewed her a pillow yesterday. The two boys are sleeping next to each other in the stairwell, their hoods pulled around them. it rains outside. When you return from the airport $25 poorer and without your mother, one of them has his leg thrown over the other. No no no your life is filled with luck, know this even as your shadow twos around you and you step into oncoming traffic. You feel bad about missing the show until you make the gym receptionist giggle.
--oyuna sweeping up the toddler who was asleep when she opened the car door and he began to slide out--effortless and immediate "ooyooyooyoo" she said, rubbing his back briskly--
Women of Mongolia: in the event of an emergency remove your high heels. The product of a stream of consciousness is altered by the process of recording it, thus the obstruction of experiment. So while away the hours before dawn imagining him inside you. You awaken because you always do after drinking. You puked a purplish mess that reminded you of when you were hostessing at a restaurant famous for its wine list and you saw a woman in the shadowy corner of the lobby holding the back of a chair and looking more like the word "woozy" than any cartoon character with stars ringing around her head. You asked her if she'd like to accompany you to the restroom. She was spitting into her napkin. You held hands down the hallway. She wanted you to leave once you got there, insisted she wasn't going to be sick. Later when you checked in the sink was filled with purple mess and a woman was embracing the wined-out lady while she sobbed. She's a nurse, she comforts people like that all the time, she told you over her shoulder. You went to find Jose, the grandpa who always saves water bottles for the desk staff and tried to kiss your neck in that bathroom once, and in the meantime a towel over the sink would have to do.