hotels. I’d looked at myself in the mirror for a while that afternoon and in a girlish way decided I would make a pretty boy. But by the time Shannon arrived, I’d almost forgotten my outfit, so busy had I been all evening, organizing my license plate file, which I use to keep track of people who speed on this road, and working on my scheme.
“You clean up good,” Shannon said, and I thought he meant he liked my house, so I showed him around, and then something happened to me for a moment, something really kicked in, calm, even poignant as I remember, a softness he culled and lent me. Then we had sex on the blue floor in the living room.
And that’s not all since I wizened: a couple years ago a friend of mine from college showed up on her way to visit someone else and borrowed my guest room for the night. She said it seemed I’d grown up a lot, which is what you say to someone who remains virtually silent for an entire visit, smiling in a wry way as you talk about a variety of things that are half-heard, old hat, and immediately forgotten.
Also, I wrote a letter to Ann Landers once, before I knew my scheme. Only half joking, I wrote, “Dear Ann Landers, I need some advice. So what should I do?” And I started a chain letter once, in an effort to solicit ideas. “Send me a good idea, a good idea to four more people, and so on. If the ideas are good we will all have good ideas!” Someone sent me a dollar, which is illegal, so I reported it, and that was that.
And my folks invited me for Thanksgiving, but I knew if I went I would seem to be giving solicitous thanks in exchange for food, which I believe is underhanded. So I let them know, by ignoring them, that I was still uncomfortable with their presence on the planet, and they sent me a check for fifty dollars.
So it’s not like nothing ever happens to me. In fact, things continue to happen, which, it turns out, is a potential problem when it comes to settling on a way of life or a sense of truth regarding one’s ideology. For instance, I was supposed to have my period about two weeks after I met Shannon, but I didn’t. I started jogging. I wanted my body to be strong in case I had to give birth. I went jogging with a pen and paper, so I could note the actions of sneaky people in the housing development sphere. I saw a man piss on his neighbor’s lawn. I saw a pizza guy exit a house zipping his pants. I saw a girl drop an enormous vase from a second-story window. I wrote little notes, planning to place them in appropriate mailboxes, so that people would know what was going on. But then I suddenly felt like cutting up my flannel sheets and sewing them into layered squares to make diapers. And then I knew it was about time to check on the homosexuals; they had never disappointed me, never required correction, but I knew that if I wasn’t vigilant,
I could not be sure. And then I felt like cleaning out the guest room and painting it yellow.
In short, I felt different. I thought about how I should adjust my scheme so that only the right people would die. I had never wanted the homosexuals to die because they are so nice, and I hadn’t wanted Vivian to die, or her little girl, because they are so wounded, and, of course, I admire wounds. I knew all this was my human weakness, and I tried, in my own way, to get over it. Trying to calm my human weakness was part of what I did when I worked on the scheme. With this new development, this lack of my period, a mere month ago, I began to find it so frustrating to work on my scheme that I cried a lot. I couldn’t figure out how to sort through all those people.
It’s hypocrisy I can’t stand. It’s how I’m always two steps from paradox, if not residing in it, if not allowing it to reside in me.
I cried so much that soon I didn’t think I was upset about the loss of an ideological structure. I admitted that the scheme could, after all, be one in a series of ideas. I thought, Something else could still occur
“You clean up good,” Shannon said, and I thought he meant he liked my house, so I showed him around, and then something happened to me for a moment, something really kicked in, calm, even poignant as I remember, a softness he culled and lent me. Then we had sex on the blue floor in the living room.
And that’s not all since I wizened: a couple years ago a friend of mine from college showed up on her way to visit someone else and borrowed my guest room for the night. She said it seemed I’d grown up a lot, which is what you say to someone who remains virtually silent for an entire visit, smiling in a wry way as you talk about a variety of things that are half-heard, old hat, and immediately forgotten.
Also, I wrote a letter to Ann Landers once, before I knew my scheme. Only half joking, I wrote, “Dear Ann Landers, I need some advice. So what should I do?” And I started a chain letter once, in an effort to solicit ideas. “Send me a good idea, a good idea to four more people, and so on. If the ideas are good we will all have good ideas!” Someone sent me a dollar, which is illegal, so I reported it, and that was that.
And my folks invited me for Thanksgiving, but I knew if I went I would seem to be giving solicitous thanks in exchange for food, which I believe is underhanded. So I let them know, by ignoring them, that I was still uncomfortable with their presence on the planet, and they sent me a check for fifty dollars.
So it’s not like nothing ever happens to me. In fact, things continue to happen, which, it turns out, is a potential problem when it comes to settling on a way of life or a sense of truth regarding one’s ideology. For instance, I was supposed to have my period about two weeks after I met Shannon, but I didn’t. I started jogging. I wanted my body to be strong in case I had to give birth. I went jogging with a pen and paper, so I could note the actions of sneaky people in the housing development sphere. I saw a man piss on his neighbor’s lawn. I saw a pizza guy exit a house zipping his pants. I saw a girl drop an enormous vase from a second-story window. I wrote little notes, planning to place them in appropriate mailboxes, so that people would know what was going on. But then I suddenly felt like cutting up my flannel sheets and sewing them into layered squares to make diapers. And then I knew it was about time to check on the homosexuals; they had never disappointed me, never required correction, but I knew that if I wasn’t vigilant,
I could not be sure. And then I felt like cleaning out the guest room and painting it yellow.
In short, I felt different. I thought about how I should adjust my scheme so that only the right people would die. I had never wanted the homosexuals to die because they are so nice, and I hadn’t wanted Vivian to die, or her little girl, because they are so wounded, and, of course, I admire wounds. I knew all this was my human weakness, and I tried, in my own way, to get over it. Trying to calm my human weakness was part of what I did when I worked on the scheme. With this new development, this lack of my period, a mere month ago, I began to find it so frustrating to work on my scheme that I cried a lot. I couldn’t figure out how to sort through all those people.
It’s hypocrisy I can’t stand. It’s how I’m always two steps from paradox, if not residing in it, if not allowing it to reside in me.
I cried so much that soon I didn’t think I was upset about the loss of an ideological structure. I admitted that the scheme could, after all, be one in a series of ideas. I thought, Something else could still occur
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