countessian

it never snows nowhere no more

NO MORE DAMNER GODGRAMMIT.

It’s been a while. Here are some things:

Last night I was lying on the floor getting my blacks dusty while flipping spirit animal cards and rewriting mine for Euro-ness and childhood memories of milk saucers once the half-Burmese was gone (although she said otherwise that time on Micheltorena, when I closed my eyes for just a second but the 99c Store pink leaves grew — remember that? Me hosting dinner guests in a black cocktail dress and Sumi amused that I thought she’d ever died?) which for some reason felt entirely connected to the other night’s foraging in the dark cupboard flipping switches on orders from the desert, when my tenders proved too much for my Chinatown power supply when combined with an LA winter night.

Anyway, Charon — last seen dressed only in lace and a wooden rattlesnake — stuck feathers in hair and plucked outfit after outfit from the bed, and no one really minded that the bird’s tail broke. Ladylike falsities like side-saddle cello were abandoned, thank God, which not too much later felt like a sneaky little metaphorical reminder of something I haven’t quite remembered yet but will get around to one of these days, and the cranes of the house smiled if you looked close enough at their carved little beaks.

BREAKING NEWS: Our suspicions (seriously, kiddos, this one isn’t just me) about a certain bar game’s link to the government just received some compelling justification in the shape of a @navy.mil email address. Honestly, we thought we were joking, but it was so easy to joke. There was so much to say. And now this! Where will it end?

Anyway, back to the things:

At some point I washed my hair in the kitchen sink just because it scanned better with whatever dumb song I had stuck in my dumb head — UGH! — but that’s another story. It didn’t matter, my hair still smells like lemons. That might’ve been the same night as the phone call to the desert and the musty cupboard switch flipping, but all these nights in the new home get garbled.

It’s like every floorboard creak in the corridor twists the memory a bit, and the people watching though the gates are probably making adjustments, too. Sometimes I watch from my room, too, so I can cast myself as one of them instead of the hapless barefoot antiheroine for once. It’s luxuriously creepy in the middle of the night in there. I’m very happy with the creaking and the echos and listening, listening, listening. (For someone who doesn’t read horror stories, I’m bursting with them nowadays.) There’s nothing I like to view better than the corridor outside my flat, and there’s no photograph I’ve taken yet that sums it up like how it feels. Honestly, hearing “go out, down the corridor, there’s a cupboard, open the door” from the desert was more exciting than it should’ve been. It’s the odd stuff that switches my brain on.

At the weekend there was a girl with an accent like I used to have, with her hair in a short cut like I used to have, wearing lipstick I still have but never wear, and she was saying “Who knows how many people have died in this place?!” with such obvious glee that I almost wasn’t bitter that I’m too old now and she isn’t. As the place in question’s somewhere I frequent as much as I possibly can, I thought “Lots, I hope! Let’s write stories about ghosties again!”

No sleep for Rachels. We’re nocturnal, but we need to pay rent.

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This entry was posted on Thursday, December 4th, 2008 at 2:41 pm. It is filed under documentary. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.