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2001-12-26 || 4:38 p.m. || we can't figure out how the tv works. || the skin forming the valleys between the knuckles on my hands is very dry and rough and foreign. i let my fingertips settle on those places and it feel like another person's hand. these hands are old and tired. these hands have given up on their efforts to please, to be useful. they sit in laps, resigned. they flutter to the face and fall back again. i haven't left the house yet. i have sat in the backyard and i have sat in the living room. i have glued things to brown paper while sitting on the wood floor and i am sitting here now in the den. the thermostat is turned up too high. i am eating too much. i will back mum's car out of the garage and drive to san diego. i will get stuck in southbound traffic and feel ridiculous in that car (i am too big for that car. i have to slump to properly look out the windshield. that car is silver. that car is conspicuous, frivolous.). i will listen to the cds in the glove compartment, music i have bought my mother on whims, thinking she would like it. it is a bit of a let down to find nick drake in the glove compartment, shrink wrapped for a year now, neglected. mum prefers talk radio. mum prefers traffic reports. in san diego i will take my sister out to dinner. we will go to sushi deli and fall silent over cups of green tea, me wanting to get back home (i am preoccupied with the cat. i am preoccupied with what in the world i will do for new year's. i still need to make christmas presents.), she worried about boys and having to move and finding a job and not ever having enough time. (we were supposed to get kmart portrait studio pictures. we were supposed to get tattoos. we were supposed to go to the beach and play twenty questions and laugh more than we have gotten to.) guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |