Mayday! I'm going down...

I'm semi-blonde now. I'm sick now. I should be sleeping now.

Listening to music on my headphones now. Pain in my lower back now. Need to get in the floor, and drink more water now.

I need to stop using the word now.

I'm thirsty and tired, and frustrated...

It's Memorial Day, so I guess I'll do nothing later today but sit around and think of poor dead soldiers and be depressed. And hopefully get better...

Bot was sick last week; running a high fever, and throwing up, etc.

I finally caught it Saturday night, right after she finally got rid of it.

Yesterday was hell. Trying to keep her happy while I laid on the couch...I stayed on that couch so long, I feel restless now...like I should do something with myself. Why not write a blog entry?

Yes. I could do that...

The month of May kicked my ass. A long blurry month, where I was too busy to be anything but busy; busy times a million, to the rooftops, etc.

I can't tell you half of what I did, though, 'cause I don't rightly remember. So hence the blur. Like watching a movie so long, when it's finally over, you don't know what happened at the start, or who that guy was, or what it all means, and furthermore, you don't care. It's over, and that's all you were wanting...

I do remember writing here, a couple weeks ago, on the eve of another holiday...I couldn't sleep, and went to the sale only to be called 'stupid' a million times by my mom and sister. A couple of shallow bitches who like to bully me any chance they get. I ended up crying, and leaving at eight fifteen...driving like a zombie, I hit a bird with a thud, and it went flying to the road...Poor bird. What did it do to deserve it?

Mother's Day. I sent Bot to the Others and cleaned. That afternoon, she was back home with me, and my father came to see us. He called me stupid for being upset about being called stupid. Plus fat and lazy, etc. Always treat mother's extra special...except when people forget their daughters are mothers, and you can't talk to me that way, I'm an adult now. Not a child you can bully...all because I priced my stuff so much less than theirs. I just wanted it gone...and they always say we'll give what doesn't sale to charity, but they never do...they bag it all back up, my stuff included, and haul it back out to try and sale to poor people who need cheap used stuff, and I don't care if it's never been worn, or namebrand, and how fancy it is, I'm marking it a quarter. Everything's a quarter. Welcome to Ashley's magic table, an overturned cardboard box where baby clothes are All you can grab for ten bucks! 'cause I don't need the money anymore. I'm doing fine with money...paid off another credit card. I don't want to owe anybody nothing. I want to be free of all debt so I can concentrate on saving, and building, and living in the light of no cutoff notices, creditors calling, this is your final warning, we're terminating your account. You're ruining your chances...You're late on your loans...You missed another payment...Ash Chairiet, you're worthless! You're stupid for marking your stuff for so low: if yours is that low, no one will buy ours! And I don't care: they shouldn't mark theirs so high. So proud of all their wares, as if pariahs are begging at their knees for Tommy Hilfiger sweaters, only four dollars! Well...my, that's what every tailor-occupying, welfare recipient needs: a four dollar Tommy Hilfiger sweater from 1993.

But it's Tommy Hilfiger, Ashley! It's Calvin Kline...says the bunch of greedy monsters who've never been on welfare, and they don't know what it's like...to buy groceries with government checks I used to hide when my parents came over because I never told them I was on welfare. No one in my family knows.

I hid it well...those printed out checks, the free healthcare, the hospital, the delivery. All paid for.

If people need clothes for their kids, and I have a whole pile of clothes my kid has grown out of, and I can afford to buy her new clothes without the money from the old ones...then how is it stupid to sell those clothes for as little as I can without actually shouting Free?

I don't know...May flew by, and it rained a lot, and I got my hair dyed, and someone put a cross on the pole where the boy who always smiled was thrown from the car while sleep-driving, with a thud, and what did he do to deserve it? A cross made of wood, and it made the knots in my stomach re-tie.

I went to a festival, and ate a big corndog. I went shopping, and bought a fifty dollar Bogart-esque trench coat on sale for nine.

I watched a lot of The Twilight Zone. I didn't write. Didn't blog. Didn't keep up with the new blog I started for summer, and sex, and all things Henry Miller...For the new laptop, I thought I'd be here everyday, but it hasn't been the case...I was too busy. Too blurry. Getting my ass kicked. Watching TV, and feeling sorry for myself...the family who hates me, I can never seem to shake...

I walked outside today, and saw a dead bird by the steps. With a bag of trash in my hands, I leaned over to get a better look...a nondescript, brownish gray, and ants had eaten his eyes...poor bird. How strange the noise I heard only hours before in the kitchen...the thud against the tin, and what was that? I asked Baby Girl, as if she would know. I called my sister, and we talked, though we didn't mention their attack...You're wasting our time, Ash. Why are you even here?

I ask myself that...and then I go numb. I fall into the blur like giving into the current...though every time I try to climb out and dry off and rest for a while, I can't...I gave into that current, and now it's got me. It's busy, and demanding. Run errands. Buy groceries. Do your job, and don't complain. You're a robot. Don't feel...don't cry...just WORK and PROCESS. Start over the next day. Do everything yourself. Take care of a sick baby...check her temperature and freak out when it's too high, and put her in the tub with cool water, and give her more medicine, and when she refuses to take it, when she spits it out, you fall to your knees and scream on the living room rug and the last bit of your tiny black heart breaks and falls down into the cracks of the concrete of humanity, the foundation of life and all that is beating, to the basement below us, the floor of the bottom of the lowest place no man can touch, or will touch, for who wants his hands in the darkest abyss? Where little hearts break, and plummet....till they hit and splatter with a deafening thud.

And that's why people sleep

It's almost three in the morning, and I haven't slept, though not for a lack of trying. I'm supposed to be waking up in two hours to go uptown and work all morning with my mom and sister, and I don't want to, but I don't have much choice. I could say, Puck you, I'm not coming, but then they wouldn't speak to me for a month...or I could pretend to be sick...I was slightly sick yesterday. A tooth is bothering me. As much as it pains me to say it, Dr. Hottie the Dentist may be nothing more than a pretty face. He has destroyed this tooth...filled it, but it's hurting...and it has been for the past three months but I dealt with it. No need to whine about everything, Ash. You whine too much.

I'm tired. May's gotten off to a busy blur of a start. I have Jimmy to do my writerly bidding, though there hasn't been a whole lot of that...just paragraphs here, a page or two there. I keep mixing the paint, but the second I set the brush to the wall, it's too wet...never dries. All dripping to the floor, and I kneel down in some short skirt and I'm all hanging out, and pulling at my clothes, and I can't get comfortable with this computer on my lap...like having a child for the first time and you're trying to balance the paint cans...and you go for the second coat, and your wrist hits the touchpad. You long for your mouse. You try and slide the baby's mouth onto your breast, and everyone's fumbling and tripping about, slipping in the paint you spilt. I'm too tired to clean it up. Too tired to paint the wall. Too tired to sit at a desk. Too distracted to feed my child a snack before bathtime last night, and while in the tub, she says, I'm hungry, and the guilt shoots straight to my overcrowded mind and my blank heart, and my body which feels like someone's covered it in veneer. It's not breathing, this body of mine. The pores are clogged. My skin is stiff, and I can no longer bend. I can't sweat, nor can I mend when cut by toys in the floor I should have picked up, but was too busy thinking of the lack of writing...the lack of blogging, the lack of sex, the lack of longing...and wanting to win a contest I'm not good enough to win, you big ol' whiny chicken. You don't deserve a laptop for writing. And my body's so filled with water and steam, I'm at the point of bursting. On the verge of explosion. Till I learn to rest, and paint, and feed, clean, take care of everyone's needs, and still have the energy for writing, my spontaneous combustion is only a matter of time.

I complain about not writing 'cause you can't paint a wall white if the wall is black. When I haven't been writing, my wall is the darkest black your well-rested mind can imagine. Meanwhile, I pull out those paint cans, and the white is just waiting...if I have been writing, then the wall has been stripped and primed, and I can live my real life without the distraction of sporadic nagging from my mental insides..."Ash, oh Ash...what about this for a title, and this for that, and characters and metaphors...better make a note, Ash. A to-do list. Blog entries. Emails. A short story. Why don't you edit? You'll never be nothing, you're a waste, and you whine...and whine...and sleep, no don't sleep! You're tired, but the insides of the insides of your mind want to write, and you'll be uptown in a few hours with people swarming about the unpainted tables covered with clothes that smell like the insides of an unpacked suitcase from a trip you took six months ago."

I need some sleep.

I need to relax.

I’m packed! Like I've been taking trips, and trips, and once I'm home, I'm gone again...a quick nap...no time to unpack...the clothes stay in and in, and there's no room for more until I finally empty everything out onto the floor...will you help me sort through it? You well-rested, smiling faces...happy families on weekends where daddies are home and mommies are resting, and all the planned-for children are lying on bunk beds well-fed.

I smell camp. So hence the bunk beds...the suitcase brought it back. Being away for a week up north, a vacation from my loud sleepless house...a week with Jesus, and Jesus fanatics. A week with singing, and praying, and cafeteria food so lousy, we ate Chips Ahoy! in our room...on bunk beds. On sleeping bags. Musty pillows. The concrete floors...at night, we stood in long lines with our eyes closed and the people on microphones would say over and over, Let Jesus in your heart, let Him in, He wants in...like some kid locked out of the house when his parents aren't home. He sits down on the sidewalk, and he waits till they drive up from work, and his stomach is growling, and what the hell are you doing on the porch, Jesus? Why aren't you inside, in this house, in your room, all alone? You don't need anyone, Jesus...you don't need happy, restful weekends...you don't need concrete floors...you don't even need to sleep at night, don't you know that, Jesus? You're insides are black with the lack of unpacking. Knock, knock...do you hear Him? He's starving at your door.

I can't sleep anymore...or avoid my writing. I'm not sure what the hell happened with that contest...It was the first thing I wanted in so long, and I swore I'd work my ass off to get it...really write with every word as loud and bright as it could get! But no...I backed down. I got distracted...I wanted something else.

I'm running out of steam. My paintjob is flimsy. The walls look like they've been painted with milk: all thin and watery.

Every day, I plan to set aside some time for myself, but after everything else I do, I'm exhausted by the time it's night, and the baby's in bed...and I'm in my own bed, and if I sleep till she wakes up, then it's right back into where we left off...over and over and over and over, and we never unpack, it seems. Just routine, schedule, work, chores, meals, baths, sleep...no sleep. If I'm lucky, a dream.

I don't want to go tomorrow...I've been so busy, I was hoping to stay home, and rest, and spend time with my child...and then at bedtime, I'd either go to bed and wake up early and write, or stay up late and write. Then sleep in.

I'm so off balance, encased in veneer...I'm suffocating here with my unpacked mind...I fed her muffins at bedtime while I read silly stories. The delay; my head returning to its rightful place. I took my own bath, and washed my hair, put away the laundry, and crawled into bed and read to myself, and then I just laid there...a child on a bunk bed, watching the milk dry. I smell expiration...no, I smell shampoo...it isn't black, it's white, it's black. It isn't night. It's morning. Hours until I go to work for the poor who will swarm, and Jesus he's knocking at nobody's door, because Jesus is sleeping. His people are sleeping. I got veneered with open eyes. Preserved in the state of constant waking. That moment when you don’t know where you are, or how long you’ve been gone. What did you dream? Was it real, was it sweet? Your eyes blink to focus on my tired routine.