Walking in the past
Monday, 20 August 2007 09:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carose59{I wrote this June 28, 2004, but I never posted it. I think I didn't think it was finished, and maybe it isn't; it's a little abrupt. But if it were to continue, it would only take you down the same path all my other grief-stricken analyses of grief go, so maybe there's no point to finishing it. Or maybe there was no point anyway, and that was the point. Anyway, it's part of my past, it's lucid, and it's over four hundred words. What more does it need?}
"Yes, It's Sludge. I Thought It'd Make A Nice Change From Coffee."*
-:- -:- -:- -:-
The other day I went to the flea market on East Washington Street.
We used to go there all the time; we spent hours there, looking at records (we got most of our collection there), at jewelry, at all sorts of things. We bought a wastebasket full of old jewelry, necklaces mostly, and used it to make our own beaded curtain.
I'm trying to get back on the horse. Apparently this includes long-dead horses, since we hadn't gone to the flea market in years. But I wanted to walk around, look at things, see if I could find . . . I don't know. Our past?
What I got was dizzy. Hideously dizzy; I didn't sit down, but I didn't really look at anything, either. I couldn't really see anything. I just wandered around and tried not to run into anything.
After that was Home Depot (where my cousin Patrick works). We were there last summer . . . .
Was it last summer? Or was it the summer before? Already I have no idea. Anyway, we were there to buy a fan, which we did. Was it the oscillating fan, the one I just broke? (I took the cage apart to clean it and the blades and it wouldn't go back together again. I have the cage held together with those plastic tie things that have gotten so popular. They're very strong, and I used hot pink ones. Pat was laughing at me when I broke the fan. That made it worthwhile right there.) I drove to the north side of town one dripping hot day to buy another, but they must not have had one because we don't have another oscillating fan.
I'm trying to come up with a way of explaining how pointless things seem without Pat around. There are people to spend time with, and I love them, and I have more time to spend, only—they aren't her. And anything interesting that happens to me just hangs in the air, then drops to the ground. Who needs a fascinating life with no one to talk to about it?
(There is not a day that passes that I don't say to myself, "I hate myself and I wish I had been kinder, better, more attentive.")
*Agador, The Birdcage
"Yes, It's Sludge. I Thought It'd Make A Nice Change From Coffee."*
-:- -:- -:- -:-
The other day I went to the flea market on East Washington Street.
We used to go there all the time; we spent hours there, looking at records (we got most of our collection there), at jewelry, at all sorts of things. We bought a wastebasket full of old jewelry, necklaces mostly, and used it to make our own beaded curtain.
I'm trying to get back on the horse. Apparently this includes long-dead horses, since we hadn't gone to the flea market in years. But I wanted to walk around, look at things, see if I could find . . . I don't know. Our past?
What I got was dizzy. Hideously dizzy; I didn't sit down, but I didn't really look at anything, either. I couldn't really see anything. I just wandered around and tried not to run into anything.
After that was Home Depot (where my cousin Patrick works). We were there last summer . . . .
Was it last summer? Or was it the summer before? Already I have no idea. Anyway, we were there to buy a fan, which we did. Was it the oscillating fan, the one I just broke? (I took the cage apart to clean it and the blades and it wouldn't go back together again. I have the cage held together with those plastic tie things that have gotten so popular. They're very strong, and I used hot pink ones. Pat was laughing at me when I broke the fan. That made it worthwhile right there.) I drove to the north side of town one dripping hot day to buy another, but they must not have had one because we don't have another oscillating fan.
I'm trying to come up with a way of explaining how pointless things seem without Pat around. There are people to spend time with, and I love them, and I have more time to spend, only—they aren't her. And anything interesting that happens to me just hangs in the air, then drops to the ground. Who needs a fascinating life with no one to talk to about it?
(There is not a day that passes that I don't say to myself, "I hate myself and I wish I had been kinder, better, more attentive.")
*Agador, The Birdcage