I want to go to the terrible writer’s conference in April. I want to go because my press is going to have a reading and I will get to read for a few seconds which I very much want to do. I want to go because I will get to room and hang out with my friend whom I do not see very often. I want to go to see if I will actually go to at least a couple of talks/panels and not set foot in the book fair horror desperation oh my god please let it be me circling mob. But I think I’m going to cancel because the thought of dragging myself and a suitcase cell over cell up the banister escalator plane aisle bump bumpity is just unimaginable. I don’t think I can do it. Unless I take oxy the entire time. Every eight hours maybe six maybe four maybe constantly because it stops working it always does.
My party did me in. I was in pain hip pain boring angry witch hag hip pain and had been in pain for days before the party and so I medicated myself for the party and drank wine during the party and forgot my body became separate became don’t fool mess fuck with me Dale bring me another pill when I should have slipped off to the attic kingdom and rested and slept but I kept going and kept having fun talking going all that standing all that sitting all that suck a bone hollow marrow full of hole suck of energy left me road kill dead pelt kick her she’s down she’s in tears oh my her fucking hips.
But my mood is good. Once I peel myself from my awful mattress. My mood is good. I will get in the water today. My mood is good. To despair is to turn your back on God. Oh. Yes. I already did that do that every day then the turning toward the turning back it’s a magic I work my belief as I am God as you are God as God has an apartment in my chest my bones that pain in my hips yes it is he it is she it is you us we chewing the bones muscles tendons fabric of ourselves the stars of us the moons what bullies we are how we kick the thing when it most wants to be dead.