Welcome To My Bed

When I have no notebook.

It is the middle of October and the leaves are half-fallen and half not. Everyone keeps saying we'll be getting snow soon, but I'm not ready for that. This cold snap has all of me confused, and I haven't been sleeping well (or really at all) lately, so the disorientation is doubled. Maybe even tripled. I hallucinated that sparks were flying away from me like lightning bugs as I was walking down the stairs to my living room. I try to explain the way the world looks like shifting sand with sometimes hovering blobs and sometimes squiggles of light and no one quite knows how to respond. I am becoming increasingly more certain that my role in the Lady Poet House is as the "weird" roommate, just as my role in life (according to Sean anyway) is as the "crazy" girl. Everyone else seems much more unhinged than I am.

Sophia and I are writing a duet based on responses to the lyric "what kind of fuckery is this". I haven't written mine yet. I don't know if she's written hers. We decided to do this just a few hours ago, so she probably hasn't done it. The whole thing just makes me think of driving to the Cantab those first few months of life in New England, and Sean singing at the top of his lungs. I'm not sure how the poem will turn out. Hopefully we write about things that end up somewhat congruent.

I have to get my manuscript printed so that I can give it to my professor and stop obsessing. I brought a poem to workshop today that he was somewhat ecstatic about, and I nearly cried at the joy of that feeling of approval. Is that what I am doomed to be constantly waiting for? A room full of people to ooh and ahh at toiled-over word choices? Slam has changed so many things. I want to look better on page. That sentence could have multiple meanings. I mean it in all of them.

I haven't slept at Hampshire for a solid weekend since September. This bed doesn't belong to me. I hate the idea of sleeping on a mattress that has been fucked on by more people than I've slept with.

This weekend, there will be many parties. Maybe I will go out. Probably not.

I keep having off-color dreams that feel like falling down stairs when I wake up out of them. In them, there are always lots of hands, but I rarely remember anything else.