DMA (Daily Mood Average): 7
The moon looked pretty full.
I had to take a nap in the middle of the day because I stayed up way too late the night before, and I took a couple hits of the vape pen for the first time in ages.
Earlier that day Frances and I went on a walk with her in the Radio Flyer red wagon collecting pretty flowers that jutted out towards the sidewalk for her fingers to grasp. She pulled the petals apart wildly while I said, “He loves. He loves me not. He loves. He loves me not.”
We stopped to explore the yard trappings at a friendly neighbor’s house: Mary, an east coast retiree who leaves sand toys for the younguns to dig up the pebbles outside her half-gated front yard. I think she does it more for social media than the pure random act of kindness that often fuels my generous impulses. Nonetheless, it’s nice of her to do so.
My husband and I ended up eating whatever we could dig up from the pantry and freezer.
Back to my story.
So I pretty much started imagining that somehow Brandon Flowers would come find me a la woman open the door, don’t let it sting, I wanna breathe that fire again. I started to creep outside the motel, furtively glancing about and half-expecting him to ambush me. It was the strangest thing. I was fearful of him finding me, and yet I wanted it insomuch as wanting to face the thing I was afraid of–a man who desired me.
Seriously. Why would a man’s desires put me off so?
My husband and I got into a fight on Pacific Coast Highway. I took off all my clothes. As a protest. As performance art. As a last-ditch attempt to get his attention through shocking vulnerability. A way to grip him, and a way to convey fearlessness, restlessness, hurt, loneliness through stark naked reality. I also claimed he did it to me to get him to participate in the dance of human relationships in which subject and object as well as agency and complicity emerged through a symbolic act.
Oh, and I wanted him to feel suffering, to know how much I was suffering.
First he was in handcuffs. Then when they found out I had a court-ordered restraining order without the proper paperwork, I was arrested again. This time I cried out to my husband for help. He tried his best, but I ended up back in isolation. Why? Because ostensibly crazy women, or rather, unpredictable women, get solitary confinement.
Next door I heard a woman screaming. She came out one point with guards holding her on either side, mid-air, handcuffed, raw-throat banshee cries of desperation reverberating from her small, human figure. Since then I have not been able to see anyone as anything but a bundle of emotions contained.
H.M.K. 