sundays incoming

I know the ritual of my father better than my own. I know him for each of its idiosyncrasies which have decided my perception of him more than any other factor. I know him for his insomnia, his two cups of coffee before work, his junk drawer of hidden cigarettes and keys to nowhere. Our house is an institution of the mother—filled with my mother and her family’s eons of junk and paintings. Junk and paintings. He holds court in the insides of things, on shelves, in drawers, within the negative space between floors and ceilings. But who needs awareness of negative spaces? Who needs a world with a woman who paints four-foot by four-foot portraits of her favorite artists and bakes a dry zucchini bread every three Sundays? Who needs a world that wants to repeat the same word over and over again? 

there are people who will know you

in a way your mother never will. 

I’m pretty sure this rumbling in my gut is signaling an earthquake. This quake will jostle the whole west coast quite a bit and maybe rip through downtown cranberry bog or main drag. The first thing I’d like to happen to me is some uncouth injury which pushes me into the first true lucidity of my life. All this writing is a framed still of “the fog”. “The fog” which expels from it the propaganda of reality and forces the mind into a state of surface level lethargy. You wish for goddamn brunch! You wish for a mimosa and maybe a nice dress with spaghetti straps like you used to have at the playground when you were five and liked the sprinklers! You wish for any comfort which made small talk free flowing and company welcome, but now there’s no love in the heart of the city. There’s only green tea and notebook and sleep and sleep.