I often eat graham crackers and think of
January 16, 2009
the coming night.
It feels soothing and desperately youthful, especially in my childhood room.
I have a habit of rearranging different life artifacts –photos and stuffed toys and plastic dinosaurs — to suit my “new outlook.” This happens once or twice a year.
It’s easy to tell when I don’t have my shit together: dust gathers on my trolls and wolf spiders make homes in the folds of my diplomas and the mouths of wine bottles and milk jugs.
I don’t have the insomnia problem as terribly as I did once, nights where I would watch the sunset and the dawn in what felt like the same breath, shivering and gaunt, reading with a flashlight like an earthquake survivor.
A spider once crawled across my fingers as I tapped out my soul into the computer.
I ran to the kitchen, where my cat was chasing a mouse and stood on a chair, anxiously awaiting somebody to bring me a fly swatter so I could terminate the mama wolf spider lurking in the juvenile madness of my Sailor Moon dolls.
In the end, I just watched QVC until morning. I keep PC devices away from my bed in fear that their ambient lights will attract the night creatures that occasion my bedclothes.
