| dewy decimal |
2003-05-12 - 1:13 a.m.
Last night my mom was crying in the bay window. She misses her Mom. Sometimes I forget that my Grandma was her Mom. That my Mom came from someone too. I hugged her and it distracted her for a moment from that vast gorge that is below her. From the soft lap that she is reminded of on days like these.
Today we poured more cement over the shards of my Grandfather's life, burried the relics of his thriftiness beneath the shade of our diseased lychee tree. I enjoy building walls, pouring sidewalks, because it makes me feel productive in a way that my occupation does not. It's immediate work. The product is much more physical. I throw my body over the walls. I land like a cat on the sidewalk. I feel my energy invested in the space. The coarse surface scratches my skin. I admire my petty wounds and let my hair fall in unflattering directions. In these afternoons I feel free.
Later we went to visit the graveyards of my Grandmothers. We let their memory revisit us and we stick polite flowers into their metal vases. A silent celebration. A silent mourning.
Picked up Twan and rented a video, The Adventures of Sebastian Cole, very inspiring. Twan is very punk minus the converses. He amazes me. I feed from him for what I lack; honesty, courage, severity. His Mom is in the hospital. I didn't want him to be alone tonight. If my Mom were in the hospital I wouldn't want to be.