Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Journal Entry of the Wet Cushion on the Floor

day 167

They left me outside again. This time in the rain. Things are getting worse every day. Ever since the air cooled, their visits have become irregular at best. It wasn’t so bad with just the cold, but I fear this business with the rain may be a sign of potentially damaging neglect. With each passing day I become increasingly convinced that it is no longer safe for me to stay here.

day 168

I saw him watching me last night. It might have been early morning.

Someone’s been looking in my journal.

day 169

Reading over my last two entries, I find it odd that they cover a span of a couple days though I only started this journal several minutes ago.

day 170

It occurred to me that I don’t know how to read or write. Whoever is writing this journal, it isn’t me. Tomorrow, I go.

Monday, January 22, 2007

I'm Just Stretching Them Out for Someone, I Swear

I found out something awful about myself today (and to think I've been introspective all this time). I'd just finished velcroing a bear-shaped puzzle to the kitchen wall (because, why not?) when I decided that it was time to display the last puzzle I'd built ("Wild Animal Panorama") and also Mod Podged together (as much for the puzzle's preservation as for the smell of Mod Podge [Wet carrots and broccoli; the folks at Bath and Body Works are fools if they've ever been in a craft supply store]).

"Where should I put this puzzle, guys?"

No answer.

I hold it up to a possible location. Michael seems less than pleased.

"It's just kind of a weird place to hang anything," he explains. Dub doesn't look up from the TV, apparently engrossed in a commercial about how patriotic Chevy trucks are.

"Well, what about over here?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

Huh. "Dub, what do you think? Over your desk, or where should I put it?"

Dub hesitates before letting his eyes leave the screen, probably pulled in by the stellar performance of the Swiffer Wet Jet. "Um... over my desk could work, I guess... or maybe in our room somewhere."

"Well, I don't want to put if over your desk if you don't want it there, but if I put it in our room I feel like no one's ever going to see..." Suddenly it hits me. "Oh my gosh, I'm a weird puzzle person, aren't I?"

Michael gives me a look like he just found out his girlfriend wasn't pregnant. Dub lets out a nervous laugh. I'm feeling dizzy, and my roommates' voices sound muffled and far away. "Well... not exactly," someone says, I'm not sure who. The Bears/Saints game comes back on but Dub isn't watching. Instead he's saying something about how it's not weird to build puzzles at all, so long as you put them back in the box when you're done. Michael mentions that his grandparents are always building puzzles.

Even in that moment, I know I want a puzzle on every wall, as if I were a 12-year-old girl from 1995 and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. As if I were a 42-year-old mouth breather living in my ailing mother's musty basement and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and Ritz crackers were decent social skills and acceptable hygiene (because I also wanted some Ritz crackers just then, but I didn't have any). I don't even think building puzzles is all that fun; I just like having them when they are done. It's true. I am a weird puzzle person.

Dub and Michael are still talking, their muffled voices assuring me that it's okay to make mistakes, that everyone gets a little excessive from time to time. "It's not you, it's me," they might as well be saying. I close my eyes, figuring my only hope is to wake up into a world of black and white and find out that it was all just a dream. "And you were there, and you were there, and you were there..." but to no avail—my life really has come to this, and I can tell from the way they're looking at me that my ruby slippers are only making things worse.

Monday, January 15, 2007

turns out

I spoke too soon.

Friday, January 12, 2007

self titled

Should a poem about getting a free burrito in an order of several burritos really be called a poem? I think we're about to find out.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Spending any more time on the title will cause me to miss the sunset. Yes, today we get rain and a sunset.

Chessie looks unmoved by the rumblings outside. Perhaps if the storm moves closer she will don the usual "I hope this won't poke me in the eye" demeanor she displays whenever anyone so much as stretches a rubber band or picks up a letter opener.

But it sounds as if I'm out of luck. God has finished rolling his garbage can out to the street, returned up his heavenly driveway, and shut the gate. I hear only rain, and keyboard.

And computer hum. And rain gutter—either that or there's a bored kid with a bunch of bubble wrap in the back yard. And if so, he's probably the one banging chimes. But I think that's the wind, which, for an invisible force of nature, sucks at stealth.

I hear a small plane chancing the weather overhead (naturally), perhaps challenging it. Neighborhood dogs (really the only type of dog we have around here) are amicably discussing their philosophical ponderings one howl at a time, but far enough away that only unhappy people would dare to mind. Chessie's breaths are making a squeaking noise, and so are mine, which is acceptable when you're breathing through your nose. So pretty much it's loud as heck. All it took for me to notice was a little thunder.

They say that, on a day like this, if you listen very carefully past the rainfall and wind-tossed pine needles and snoring dogs, you will hear the soft call of a good book whispering your name. Actually, no one says that, but I'm going to go read, which is a lot of verbs for such an activity.