Published Oct 21st, 2020, 10/21/20 7:32 pm
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Dear Diary,
This is my start over. Aurelia asked me how long it's been since I've
spoken to you. I told her, a while. When I was a little kid and was all yelly yelly and Darryl (dad) wanted me to be more hushy-hushy, he gave me you and told me to put the noise on your pages whenever I felt like I needed to, which was all the time except for when I was running or sleeping. Told me to fold it up in you, so he could get some peace. So he could have quiet for concentration when we picked at our puzzles after work. Yes, Diary, we still do puzzles together. It's still our way of, I guess, bonding. Anyway, after a while, my brain stopped pushing so much loud out of my mouth. Stopped noisey-ing up the puzzling. Thanks to you.
You know how a health bar makes you less hungry, but don't really make you full? Diary, that's what you are. A health bar. You take the hunger-growl out of my mind. And once I got to a place where the growl was pretty much a purr, I stopped writing in you. But now the volume on the growl is turning up again. And even though it's being turned up, I can feel it working its way down, pushing behind my eyes, and marching over my tongue, ready to come out. And my father, well, he still doesn't want to be disturbed. And I don't want to disturb him and his work, and his newspaper, and definitely not the puzzles, because the puzzles are our time. So, Diary, thanks for still being a friend. Something for me to bite down on. Something for me to whisper-scream to. Because sometimes I have too many screams up there. And they boing boing in my brain
boing boing in my brain
like a jumping bean,
boing boing in my brain
like a jumping bean
my brain a moon bounce at a party
nobody's invited to.
Dear Diary,
"Amniotic embolism."
Those words are like confetti for the tongue. Like speaking a foreign language. Hypnotic symbolism, amniotic embolism. So much fun to say, but it means "death of my mother" when you translate it into birth-giving talk. Means her blood was poisoned. Means it caused her heart to stop. Means me, as a kid, yelling all the time looking for her, searching for a beat.
Diary, I know you already know this. It's been written in me for a long time, so I know I've written it in you a long time ago. Along with questions. Questions like, do you know what it feels like to feel like a murderer? I do. Atleast I did back then. And I still do. Sometimes. Don't get me wrong, Darryl has never called me that or said anything like that. If anything, he says it was the amniotic embolism that did it. But he's always telling me over and over again that I owe it to my mother to accomplish her dreams of being a marathon winner. For her. Not just a runner, a winner. And he's been pushing me from the beginning.
Dear Diary,
One more thing about today. I almost bit my tongue off. Just nibbled too hard on it the whole ride home. And if I did bite it off, it would've been so gross, because then I would've had blood on my teeth. And what if my father, for some reason, cracked a joke or said something funny that made me smile and then he would've had to see my cherry chompers? My bloody reds? But he didn't. And why would he? There was nothing funny, at least not to him. He just bit down on his own tongue, and judging by the dimple in his cheek going in and out, he was biting down pretty hard too.
Dear Diary
Diary-ing's not for Sundays.
And it's not that I don't have nothing to say, or that I don't want to say it. I just think maybe you deserve a day off to be as blank and closed as you want.
I know I feel that way sometimes.
Dear Diary
Okay, I'm weird.
Diary, you know I'm also a winner. Wih-winner. Which, for me, is boring. Buh-boring. And sounds like snore. Snuh-snoring. My race is always, always, always, always, sounds like other people talking. Like no one really caring that I'm running a mile -1600 meters- faster than they can probably run ablock. Like chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick, check me out! Chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick, check me out! But no one does, until the last lap. Which is the part where I win. Week after week. Wih-wih winner . . . whatever.
I give the ribbons to Darryl. Whatever.
He says something about my mother. Whatever.
Your mother would want you to work harder.
What's wrong with you?
She'd want you to tighten that form.
Widen your stride. Beat your time.
Like I always say, ROI. Return on Investment.
What's wrong with you?
The more you put in, the more you get out.
That last lap, open up your lungs. Breathe.
Your mother would want you to breathe.
What's wrong with you?
And then I immediately start thinking about what breathing sounds like. I can never really find it. Always just on the tip of my tongue. And then I start thinking about what not breathing sounds like. And then, while Darryl goes on and on about my mother, I start thinking about crying. Me, crying. Not me crying right then, but me crying when I was being born. And how I didn't. Not at first. That's what Darryl always tells me, has no problem telling me. That I didn't cry. Because I wasn't breathing. And my mother was crying. Then I started breathing. Then she stopped. And I started crying.
Ships passing in the night.
She's not here because I am. Because of me. Because something is wrong with me, Diary, which made something wrong with her. Her. She has a name. She had a name. Has. You remember? It's Regina. Regina Lancaster. Born on Rosa Park's birthday, delivered me on the day of a hurricane. And died.
This is my start over. Aurelia asked me how long it's been since I've
spoken to you. I told her, a while. When I was a little kid and was all yelly yelly and Darryl (dad) wanted me to be more hushy-hushy, he gave me you and told me to put the noise on your pages whenever I felt like I needed to, which was all the time except for when I was running or sleeping. Told me to fold it up in you, so he could get some peace. So he could have quiet for concentration when we picked at our puzzles after work. Yes, Diary, we still do puzzles together. It's still our way of, I guess, bonding. Anyway, after a while, my brain stopped pushing so much loud out of my mouth. Stopped noisey-ing up the puzzling. Thanks to you.
You know how a health bar makes you less hungry, but don't really make you full? Diary, that's what you are. A health bar. You take the hunger-growl out of my mind. And once I got to a place where the growl was pretty much a purr, I stopped writing in you. But now the volume on the growl is turning up again. And even though it's being turned up, I can feel it working its way down, pushing behind my eyes, and marching over my tongue, ready to come out. And my father, well, he still doesn't want to be disturbed. And I don't want to disturb him and his work, and his newspaper, and definitely not the puzzles, because the puzzles are our time. So, Diary, thanks for still being a friend. Something for me to bite down on. Something for me to whisper-scream to. Because sometimes I have too many screams up there. And they boing boing in my brain
boing boing in my brain
like a jumping bean,
boing boing in my brain
like a jumping bean
my brain a moon bounce at a party
nobody's invited to.
Dear Diary,
"Amniotic embolism."
Those words are like confetti for the tongue. Like speaking a foreign language. Hypnotic symbolism, amniotic embolism. So much fun to say, but it means "death of my mother" when you translate it into birth-giving talk. Means her blood was poisoned. Means it caused her heart to stop. Means me, as a kid, yelling all the time looking for her, searching for a beat.
Diary, I know you already know this. It's been written in me for a long time, so I know I've written it in you a long time ago. Along with questions. Questions like, do you know what it feels like to feel like a murderer? I do. Atleast I did back then. And I still do. Sometimes. Don't get me wrong, Darryl has never called me that or said anything like that. If anything, he says it was the amniotic embolism that did it. But he's always telling me over and over again that I owe it to my mother to accomplish her dreams of being a marathon winner. For her. Not just a runner, a winner. And he's been pushing me from the beginning.
Dear Diary,
One more thing about today. I almost bit my tongue off. Just nibbled too hard on it the whole ride home. And if I did bite it off, it would've been so gross, because then I would've had blood on my teeth. And what if my father, for some reason, cracked a joke or said something funny that made me smile and then he would've had to see my cherry chompers? My bloody reds? But he didn't. And why would he? There was nothing funny, at least not to him. He just bit down on his own tongue, and judging by the dimple in his cheek going in and out, he was biting down pretty hard too.
Dear Diary
Diary-ing's not for Sundays.
And it's not that I don't have nothing to say, or that I don't want to say it. I just think maybe you deserve a day off to be as blank and closed as you want.
I know I feel that way sometimes.
Dear Diary
Okay, I'm weird.
Diary, you know I'm also a winner. Wih-winner. Which, for me, is boring. Buh-boring. And sounds like snore. Snuh-snoring. My race is always, always, always, always, sounds like other people talking. Like no one really caring that I'm running a mile -1600 meters- faster than they can probably run ablock. Like chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick, check me out! Chick chick chick chick chick chick chick chick, check me out! But no one does, until the last lap. Which is the part where I win. Week after week. Wih-wih winner . . . whatever.
I give the ribbons to Darryl. Whatever.
He says something about my mother. Whatever.
Your mother would want you to work harder.
What's wrong with you?
She'd want you to tighten that form.
Widen your stride. Beat your time.
Like I always say, ROI. Return on Investment.
What's wrong with you?
The more you put in, the more you get out.
That last lap, open up your lungs. Breathe.
Your mother would want you to breathe.
What's wrong with you?
And then I immediately start thinking about what breathing sounds like. I can never really find it. Always just on the tip of my tongue. And then I start thinking about what not breathing sounds like. And then, while Darryl goes on and on about my mother, I start thinking about crying. Me, crying. Not me crying right then, but me crying when I was being born. And how I didn't. Not at first. That's what Darryl always tells me, has no problem telling me. That I didn't cry. Because I wasn't breathing. And my mother was crying. Then I started breathing. Then she stopped. And I started crying.
Ships passing in the night.
She's not here because I am. Because of me. Because something is wrong with me, Diary, which made something wrong with her. Her. She has a name. She had a name. Has. You remember? It's Regina. Regina Lancaster. Born on Rosa Park's birthday, delivered me on the day of a hurricane. And died.
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