laundry day

Woke this morning to blue sky, anomaly. Waited in the cold with the kid for the bus, counted nearby piles of dog shit. The bus driver waved frantically- D. has not gone to school for nearly a week, due to illness. I waved, the bus driver continued to wave, I watched him wave then walked away. A cat mewed frantically at us as we left this morning- lost, a stray? Big eyes, fur a swirl of gray and black. Looks like Kraken, I said, a feral kitten fixed and gentled to yard cat, chasing squirrels on the other side of the country now- she allowed D. to lightly stroke her fur, then ran into the woods.

Laundry day. Drank two cups of coffee and returned to bed. Hours later woke weak and disoriented to a gray sky. Can’t remember what I dreamed. Have not slept well for days, weeks, years. An orange bottle of trazadone sits like a beacon bedside, waiting for a 12 hour stretch in which I don’t have to be- or fake- awake.

I miss writing. Come fall I will be a student again, with equal amounts of hope and debt. I may have a seizure disorder, I may have dissociation identity disorder, I may have constant atypical migraines. I may have kittens, live birth, unassisted. Dental caries. Disability. By March a dog will come to live with us, a service dog to be. My previous service dog was, unfortunately, as anxious and hyper-vigilant as me. She is now retired, a companion animal, her presence alone a grace. Like the cat, a grace, as she licks her asshole clean with toothy decadent slurps, red fur afire in a thin shaft of sun.

I write about assholes too much. I miss writing. I don’t want to share a goddamn thing. I don’t want to make paragraphs, deadlines, sense. I want words to conduct through me, sparking with their innate rhythm of convulsion. I want to paint with blood and shit, glitter and mold. I am ready, now, flesh taut itched and burning to burst through its own limitations.

Instead: laundry day, social worker appointments, hours on the phone with disability, unduly joyful school bus drivers at ungodly hours of the morning. Dog shit, trazadone, pendulous period, my gut an oversoaked sponge- tissue, clots, the slippery lip of a hand-me-down Keeper discolored by the blood and suck of internal acids. Lemme go empty my blood bucket. L. still in outpatient, D. sick, and I behind on everything, most of all myself.

And that blanket I’m crocheting? Ya know, the yellow stripe, dead grandmother dreams, train-riding emerging-writer-fellowship-and-homeless-shelters blanket? At my current rate of production, it will take 8 years to complete. That’s a lot of fucking Al-Anon meetings.

Speaking of 12 Step:

 

GOD, grant me the serenity

to shit without being timed,

the courage

to laugh without permission,

and the wisdom

to call bullshit as I see it.

 

Love,

Cassandra

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