4:53 p.m. - March 20, 2003
I think the Counting Crows redid Joplin; how easy to be erased, isn't it?
Mowed the back lawn and lay in the middle without a blanket though my shirt and jeans became damp before long and thought about Janis Joplin and the song Big Yellow Taxi � they paved paradise and put up a parking lot � and the longer I lay there, the less I thought about getting up. How easy to remain still and listen to dampness, those slight turns and pops strumming individually like a symphony lacking a conductor, a free for all.
I went to the garage for the hoe and soil, the trowel, dropped them on the ground. As soon as the thought manifested, I was tired. I looked around and didn�t know where to begin with this monstrosity; I�m not going to bother and of course, now I feel bad, as if I�ve reneged on a promise. I have, in a way, I suppose; I tell myself mind over matter, mind over matter, go outside, talk to strangers, go into a store for no reason than browse, invite someone out to eat at a new restaurant, buy a book or two, and not one activity appeals. Not even going for a drive or hiking into the hills to my secret spot that is always best this time of year. It isn�t apathy because I want this, I am terrified by this fog that convolutes my days and nights and I�ve spent more than an hour looking out the window and writing these two paragraphs.
An hour and I thought I sat down a few minutes ago.
I feel needy, want to talk with someone who won�t fall for obfuscations and redirections, will anticipate the ways I manipulate conversations that free me from having to say much at all. I want to go on a long walk and talk; I don�t want to listen. I want to cry. Do you know how pathetic it is to realize that the bright spot is a guy who hits you? I know we will fight this weekend; Spec is angry and irritated and I am apathetic, not responding to his prods the way I�m expected to. And I want to fight with him, I want to argue and yell and it is a sick thought to wonder perhaps I�ll wake up if he hits me. I don�t understand what�s happening.
And on the outside, I perform well, talk to a friend who�s divorcing, talk to Barbara-the-Editor, send a card to my grandmother. Decline offers to go to a friend�s house for dinner, tell the agency that I�m unavailable to work tomorrow. I�m doing fine, I smile and can play the part well. And inside, I turn the music loud so I can�t hear myself think.
