thoughts of a son of a bitch


There aren't enough drugs to make me feel better.

Birders. Birders.	5/31/01 I want to have the word "reconsider" tattooed on my hand. Hmmm. "How was hearts weekend?" people ask me. Well, we used a ranger's cabin. Upstate New York. He's lived alone in the woods for six years. Good CD collection. Comfortable furniture. And his refrigerator was covered with "magnetic poetry." Like this: A little unsettling. Had he really gone to Maine? Or was he in the woods? Watching us? The lesson I already know? Sometimes when you leave home you have to erase things or put them away. Far away. We played hearts. And hiked. And bird watched. (Go ahead, ask.) And lime-tic watched. And talked. And everyone's parents are getting older. Even my daughter's. As always, it was good to be with old friends. Friends who've been around the wheel. Jesus. I just seem so fucking morbid. I'm not, really. I'm really fucking happy. What language. I'm okay. I'm going to be okay. I don't know if I'm better. I don't know what that means. I'm not consciously as sad. But maybe that's only because I don't think about my father all of the time. But when I do, when I'm not just relating the story of his death by rote, when I actually stop and think, or when something makes me stop and think, then the foot steps back on my chest. And it all hits. And all I want is escape. As they say in AAA, one bottle at a time. Tryin' like a sonofabitch.

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