Fever

This room is full of sleeping people. 11:19 on a Saturday night. Its like a spell was set over them, and I am awake alone in a bubble of non-time. Wide awake, I'm slipping in and out of dreamscapes, a breathing city like a spider in the center of a shivery web, a dream high that is alicefalling far underground and spinning in the center of a changing city all at once, spun in and out of upsidedown, the darkness breathing with unseen sleepers and memories, people remembered, taking the color of ghosts, vibrating my edges with their urgency. One half a fractured heart straining to dig up what the other half has taken pains to bury. The air today is too wet, too much like a breath. The city is a swallowing mouth. Being buried is like drowning and drowning is like being swallowed whole. Time has teeth. This feels like that sort of fragmentation. Chewed up. Caught. Stuck between time's front teeth. That is a disgusting metaphor. The wetness, the breathing, the strange smells in this room make it feel like that. Someone left a pack of cigarettes. I don't smoke anymore. I'm going to right now. Maybe the door, when I open it, will look onto a different city, a night less drowning.

Dropped an hour somewhere, though I'm surprised not more than that. My body is telling me 4 am, but the clock is saying something else again. Everyone is still sleeping and not likely to wake up again, and unless Stephen J. comes home or the phone rings I might be stuck in this one hour all night, with the same song tumbling around inside my skull and iwishiwishiwish i was some sort of musician cause then I could get it outside of myself but the best I can come up with is trying to hum it to which Robbie says, all day, "Stop that, it's creepy."
My voice is too high pitched, he says, and small, like a demented kindergartener. It's a humming, ticking sort of song though, like a bunch of bees in a music box, and there's a language to it that I either don't know or can't remember and to try to compose other words doesn't work because they simply aren't the right ones. The buzzing is in my fingertips too, and my teeth, perhaps I should take something to help me sleep, why is everyone so so sleepy? I feel like I could run, or go to a show, I like the night life, baby, or climb through an empty city, exploring things. It's nights just like this when not driving is the worst thing in the world.
I don't think he's coming home. I don't think the phone will ring, I think I might have fallen deep into a hole and I m not here at all, maybe still falling, or up and off the planet. Last night I saw the most perfect stars and the Milkyway in a ribbon cause I made Rob go outoutout of the house, its only one am we've been so restless, itching underneath the skin like something's coming and how come nobody seems to feel that but me? After years of waiting, nothing came. Manic thoughts again, it builds and ebbs, I try to suppress everything always, keep myself in tight but I am leaking all over the place and now my heart is full.
Disintegration of the unseen hour. And the only questions people ever seem to ask: "Are you on drugs? How much have you been drinking?"
The answer, always, not nearly, nearly enough.

More Awesome Than Sad

Stephen J. is mowing the lawn. That and the window fan are the pleasantest of white noises combined, and I am getting sleepy. Which could also be the cold medicine, cause I have the sniffles, and I accidentally overdosed myself on Robitussin, cause I didn't read the label correctly. Didn't they used to make After School Specials about that sort of thing? Man, whatever happened to After School Specials?
What have I been up to? Being crabby/sleepy mostly. I've been up to some other things too I guess, but all of them only half-assed. These include: landscaping, drinking, Meeting New and Interesting people, working on my next book, working on publicity for the the current book, cutting paper snowflakes, looking for for-real jobs, learning to box, making mad mixes, wishing people belated happy birthday, and drinking more water.
One time I went hiking, and one time I helped Barry Kriebel edit a script for a play. And one time I made Stephen J. kill a baby squirrel, which was horrible. But it was only because the baby squirrel was already dying, and I didn't want it to suffer all day on the hot tin roof. It was an act of mercy. Except that I made Steve do it, which makes me sort of a jerk. In my defense, had I been home alone, I would have done it myself, but squirrel killing is boy business, and, since there was a boy home, yeah.
On the opposite side of sad, dead, baby squirrels though, we have that my book is finished!! Finished for real finished. You can go to amazon.com right now, and search Molli Rocket, and click the thing and by it, and it will come in the mail, right to your house! If that is not awesome, I don't know what is.
In fact, it is so awesome, I'm gonna end this post right now, so you can go do that, and bask in the awesomeness. Do it.