Whiskey drinks and chocolate bars
There was a hot wind coming off the river and into the weekend. It only cooled after the thunderclouds unleashed their downpours. "It smells like graduation" a girl said. Even at school, it reeks of cut grass and sweat. I like the smells, though. I like the way the humid fog smells, even the way downtown smells when it bakes in hot Weather.
It's only may.
The Weather. Sometimes I'm tuned into it. I'm conscious of everything it does, from the instant I wake I know how the weather is. I often attributed my depression to the winter. I think "If I am to have any control over my own
emotions, I ought to have control over Weather." I know that doesn't make sense, only on an appetetive level does it appeal to me.
This room turns orange and dusty by the end of the day. It's always dusty, but it's never orange. It gets the morning light, which likes to spite the brown wood walls and the dingy curtains. I like to think of Weather as a
character, an impish little guy that likes to tease this old house. "Heh. You've been here for 200 odd years," he laughs. "You think yer such hot stuff, but watch what this humidity does to the floorboards. See how the ice warps your clapboards and wrecks the wallpaper." The Weather laughs at me a lot, particularly cause he's got such control over how I think and how I feel.
Every morning, I wake up in a sweat. I think Weather partly does this to me, it's just a small way for him to get back at me, to poke me in the stomach a little for my little and silly arrogance. For three days, Weather's been doing the same thing. It makes me think that he's gonna get
bored, and gonna toss snow our way. My dad talks in terms of pressure and barometers, fronts and what is happening to the West and East of us. I think that Weather has got stuck in a rut, and it's only a matter of time before his whimsy takes over.
I wake in a sweat. I have bad dreams about college. I have dreams of expectations dashed - a dorm room too small, a college full of donkeys and circus animals, a dorm room that was a part time high class restaurant. My mother has been playing dress-up doll with me. "How about this dress for college? Or sheets - what sort of sheets do you want? Where do you wanna buy your sheets? How about blankets, you must have a new blanket before you go. It will be special." And she'll hug me, and say she loves me.
I wake, and feel like I'm fragmented. Disoriented and exhausted. As though my scales and fur are ruffled, Weather overwhelming me with his humidity and heat. Cat pawing and jerking at my eyes and face. When I drive downtown in mornings, I pass a dirty pond. Across the pond is a castle. I think of it as a castle, but it's really an abandoned and ruined factory. The water is still, and the castle is mirrored in it. When I drive home in the evening, the pond is ruffled and upset.
I can't see the castle mirrored in the evening. "It takes time for Weather to build up, to grow in heat and strength," my father said. I don't know if that is true, but it seems like Weather hasn't had time to wreak havoc
on the water in the morning. Night smooths it out, calms down the water, like my mother brushing my hair. And then the hot wind starts from the river, slowly building the miniature white caps and wrinkles in the corrugated pond's surface.
I'm the opposite of the pond. I start ruffled and anxious, worried by all my unconscious keeps tossing at me. Future! Dorm rooms! Majors! Term Papers! Sheets! Dresses! Waitressing! Bank Accounts! College! "Stop it, stop bothering her!" Conscious mind says. Conscious mind is the opposite of irrational Weather - by the end of the day, Conscious mind has ironed out the inconsistencies and troubles Unconscious stirs up during Night.
I need to go make my bed.
---
Rare is the journal entry that completely satisfies me. I talk about them as if they're little creatures to amuse me. Entry 23 is a sluggish beast, 57 is energetic and is chewing through the television cables. Sometimes they aren't even written by Me, Margaret Eliza Patton. If last weeks was written by me, I may never forgive myself. That was written by a girl who had a few things in common with me. Equinox said that it was still me (and hence, arrogant of me), but if he got the idea that I was writing it, I hadn't done my job well enough.
Each entry, lately, has been a little off slant for me. I have a vision of a perfectly balanced creature - the right mix of sensory details and insight. The concrete with the abstract. But each entry just grazes the ideal, then slips back into it's dominant side. I spend the entire entry talking about how pretty it is to wake up on sundays, or how rock and roll the concert was. Or I write a monstrosity like my last entry, which was completely without anything solid.
New Stuff : Remember the ruthmoen boards? They live . Well, they might. I spent a lot of last night yelling at my friends Foster and Mike, telling them to post. I was met with complaints and whingings.
Before the ruthmoen boards were wiped out, there was a concerning message from schlomo. It really bothered me. What bothered me wasn't so much that we had a misunderstanding, but that he had posted about it on a board I had no control over. If he had such a serious complaint about me, the right thing to do would have been to email me. People found it confusing - he referred to Maggie [an online friend of mine, and a real life friend of Schlomo's] and me in the same message. People thought Maggie and I were the same person. The worst is that I'm not sure if everything got settled straight.
The internet makes me so sad sometimes.
2000-05-08, Weather / board things
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