(no subject)

Outside my apartment building, on the curb next to where my car is parked, sit seven black trashbags full of my mother's clothes.

I've been carting them around in my backseat and trunk for the past two months because I had not been able to find a suitable place to donate them all. The other day, I finally dredged up the phone number for Purple Heart and thusly made an appointment for pick-up.

Now I don't know how to feel.

I had thought I was ok with this. It had to happen, I knew this. It was all gung-ho and sally forth when I was labouriously cleaning out the closets and filling the bags, nary a weird feeling in sight. But tonight, as I stood on the front steps to the building waiting for the Engineer to let me in, I looked at the seven bags lined up on the cold sidewalk and felt like I was abandoning her on the side of the road.

Something ponderously large and heavy moved through my chest.
I chewed my bottom lip to keep from bursting into tears and went inside.

maybe there's a God above

The day has gone from sunny and bright at noon, warm to the point where I had to put my car windows down at lunchtime because the Cadillac was getting grossly hot, to bucketing down great sheets of rain at four-fifteen in the afternoon.

I want to take these ridiculous shoes off and madly dance out in the parking lot in my stocking feet, with my hair sticking wet against my bird-bone skull and my face turned to the grey sky.

Rain has never overly bothered me. Days like this leave me craving the feel of it on my skin. I could walk forever in this weather, singing John Cale over and over again.

(no subject)

I am so angry right now that my hands are shaking.

This goes beyond sardines and into the white-hot rage territory.

Count your lucky stars.