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A page from my book of days . . .
Sunday, March the 17th, 2002 @ 4:22 p.m.

Well, today I've been glumy, glum, glum, glum.

Mom and Dad left, and I was suddenly very, very, did I say very, alone. I tried to perk myself up, and reminded myself that this was all just a pattern that has haunted me since my sissy would leave back to college most weekends when I was three, and that I'm bigger then this, but uhg, I still felt like shit, and I could feel my heart and feel it in my temples, and see it beating, literally bouncing the book on my chest the tiniest bit.

I was talking to Everchanging, one of my very favorite people to chat with when I realized I was not breathing. Something I've come to associate more and more with my anxiety levels. I sit there, anywhere, barely breathing. My chest nearly unperceptively moving, as the weight, in the void, on the diaphragm of my breath keeps me from expanding my lungs to their fullest. I explained to Everchanging that I was off to be anywhere but here in front of this, the most beloved of accursed contraptions. I was off to breathe. To open up and expand my lungs and to realign the energy that resides within.

Truth be known, I often, actually mostly, prefer to be alone, and to keep my little schedule, and get my 9 hours of sleep. Well, at least that is what I tell myself. But now that I am alone, it just completely sucks. I got up from in front of the computer and left to go to the bookstore, not to the cruisy one, cause then I would be even more down on myself after having left with no one hitting on me, but to the less cruisy uptown Borders. They only had one copy of "Blood and Gold", Anne Rice's latest left, and it's $30.00 cover had my name written all over it. I was glad to have it, but I still was not breathing. Even though I forced my lungs to open them selves up and consciously, now and again, took big gulps of air, like a gold fish in an autumn pond choked with rotting leaves.

I convinced myself that what I really needed was a nap, and that the world would be much more sunshiny upon waking from said nap. I could breath and expand my chest while laying down and reading my new treasure.

On the way home I got sidetracked (how rare) and went into the art store again to flirt with the man with the diamond shaped goatee (I can tell he has the most wonderfully hirsute body) for the third day in a row, but really I did need some artgum, my needed eraser was just not handling the thick layers of charcoal I had coated my paper with, and I also wanted some white charcoal to highlight with. I had to resist the urge to buy lots and lots of filbert brushes and rush home and paint. (I really should not spend that much money, and I have other much more pressing work to do, including this weeks art assignment of doing 3 identical still lives under 3 different light conditions.

Upon arriving home I still had not really successfully succeeded in breathing, but I laid down anyway, knowing what I really needed to do was to go and walk, or rollerblade, and beat this anxiety, this anger even, misguidedly placed at those who have so recently left me, that is really anger at myself, but I didn't I laid down and read and watched occasionally for long moments, as my eyes kept reading, the book bouncing from the pounding of my heart, and then I would pick back up, my eyes and mind following the words again, not even really knowing what I had just read in the last couple of paragraphs.

I lay there finally, not reading any longer after an hour, wanting, wishing desperately for the oblivion of sleep, but it would not come.

I laid there still longer, repeating over and over to myself a mantra of, "get up, go walk." till the words had become a nearly mindless blur on the inside of my skull.

In one fluid, stiff motion, like a Barbie doll with rigid limbs I propelled myself up into a standing position.

I used my toes in a pincing grasp to pick up my black square cut boxer/briefs and place them in my hands.

I finished getting dressed, and after using psychic abilities finally managed to locate my, only momentarily, missing keys.

I harnessed up Mia and we were off.

I almost instantly began to feel better.

I don't know why it is such an ordeal to just get up and fucking go.

We ended up back in College Memorial Park Cemetery, I called my brother back in New Mexico on my phone and read names and dates over the phone to him. He was fascinated and weirded our at the same time. The sound of the city seemed to drift away once again, and I was left only with the sound of insects, and the hot humid weather of a southern summer, even though it's only a very pleasant moist day out and about the city. It was a truly otherworldly experience. I found a large plot today, there are no grave markers in this area, save one, a rather largish piece of granite that reads, "Babyland." I'm thinking it must be a plot for the unnamed of long ago.

My brother told me not to tell him anymore after that.

I didn't want to stay after that.

About 30 feet from the sidewalk I could here the sounds of the city again, and feel the coolness of the pleasant spring day it is in the rest of the city.

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