8/14/2001
Scrap 8
8/14/01
My father is under the bed with tangled hair and outsourced batteries; I cannot sleep. There are crickets between the sheets, I know, cicada shells scrunch under the carpet. I cannot eat ice-cream without spilling it on my shirt or, more likely, whoever’s shirt I happen to be wearing that day. Life is a trial. I am ungratefully fortunate.
There are no managers in my dreams, only me trying to make a hundred invisible people do something critically important. It’s probably a matter of life or death. I’m turning into a boy again and my voice cracks so badly as to be incomprehensible. My dream body is always in puberty of one gender or another.
Bug spray makes me cough. I think about swamp-witches. I think about the Ineffable Golden Trout, figure of some missing fairy-tale. I think about the points of my boy-friend’s hair. Tomorrow the utility bill is due. ¶ 10:10 PM
My father is under the bed with tangled hair and outsourced batteries; I cannot sleep. There are crickets between the sheets, I know, cicada shells scrunch under the carpet. I cannot eat ice-cream without spilling it on my shirt or, more likely, whoever’s shirt I happen to be wearing that day. Life is a trial. I am ungratefully fortunate.
There are no managers in my dreams, only me trying to make a hundred invisible people do something critically important. It’s probably a matter of life or death. I’m turning into a boy again and my voice cracks so badly as to be incomprehensible. My dream body is always in puberty of one gender or another.
Bug spray makes me cough. I think about swamp-witches. I think about the Ineffable Golden Trout, figure of some missing fairy-tale. I think about the points of my boy-friend’s hair. Tomorrow the utility bill is due. ¶ 10:10 PM
