A lot has passed, but I've lost my physical journal and it scares me.
Father, aware of his coke habit now, mother recently informed. Her misery is a bane, a tired old repeat of miseries past, never dealt with, handled, acknowledged. She is a slipshod life left awash ashore of her own making. Never dreaming I'd be the one to spoon her, hold her, cuddle the small thin body she calls hers as she sobs, hyperventilates, sighs into non-being one simple breath at a time.
I don't know now that a different structure will be what I need, I begin to think that I need an entirely different place, miles upon miles between myself and those who bore me. Because they deteriorate in a fashion that I cannot fathom, their terrible middle age destroying who they both are, both were, both will never be again.
And I carve a tiny little line, but jesus it doesn't even count. The blade so dull I don't even bleed, just a tiny red welt to remind me of my cowardice.
*
Lapse in time. But I want to highlight the good, the soul-transcending, the old-but-new:
We got back to Long Beach around 12:30.
Tristan asks, “Do you...want to go to the beach?””Yes.” That quick.
We walked down and rain started to spit. It was chilly. We walked through the break in the wall next to the boardwalk by Umpatty's, off Neptune. The sand was damp, the wind cut just a bit, just a slightly autumnal bite to it. We were drunk and mad for each others' company and light. Our toes hit the low tide – there were scores of those tiny clams under the wash, the sand felt rolling.
I remember the light from the boardwalk playing coyly on the water. The jetty looking wet and sharp and dangerous. And Tristan stripping down to his boxers and running into the surf. I shouted at him, asked why bother with the boxers – he ran back out and tore them off, then straight back in.
Father, aware of his coke habit now, mother recently informed. Her misery is a bane, a tired old repeat of miseries past, never dealt with, handled, acknowledged. She is a slipshod life left awash ashore of her own making. Never dreaming I'd be the one to spoon her, hold her, cuddle the small thin body she calls hers as she sobs, hyperventilates, sighs into non-being one simple breath at a time.
I don't know now that a different structure will be what I need, I begin to think that I need an entirely different place, miles upon miles between myself and those who bore me. Because they deteriorate in a fashion that I cannot fathom, their terrible middle age destroying who they both are, both were, both will never be again.
And I carve a tiny little line, but jesus it doesn't even count. The blade so dull I don't even bleed, just a tiny red welt to remind me of my cowardice.
*
Lapse in time. But I want to highlight the good, the soul-transcending, the old-but-new:
We got back to Long Beach around 12:30.
Tristan asks, “Do you...want to go to the beach?””Yes.” That quick.
We walked down and rain started to spit. It was chilly. We walked through the break in the wall next to the boardwalk by Umpatty's, off Neptune. The sand was damp, the wind cut just a bit, just a slightly autumnal bite to it. We were drunk and mad for each others' company and light. Our toes hit the low tide – there were scores of those tiny clams under the wash, the sand felt rolling.
I remember the light from the boardwalk playing coyly on the water. The jetty looking wet and sharp and dangerous. And Tristan stripping down to his boxers and running into the surf. I shouted at him, asked why bother with the boxers – he ran back out and tore them off, then straight back in.
