Pages

Saturday, August 12, 2006

There are no books for that

Sometimes I am awake. Sometimes I am dreaming.

Sometimes I say, “you’ll have to excuse him, he’s dead.” Sometimes I say, “you’ll have to excuse me, I’m dreaming.” Sometimes I say, “you’ll have to excuse me, I’m dead.”
One time my brother sat next to me on a train and defended my choices to strangers and kept me company in a yellow t-shirt and glasses. He was dead, but I had to excuse him. One time he came to my apartment in the middle of the night, dressed in black, and banged on the window and whispered to be let in. He was alive and I excused him. One time he left dirty clothes, red, black and green, all over the floor and I had to clean up. I was dead and no one excused me. One time he was dressed in black and would not say a word to me. He was dead and I couldn’t excuse him. One time I broke my brother’s glasses in a fight under a yellow and white polyester afghan. I was barely excused, but he was alive.

Now I dreaming and more alive than dead. I find that there are no more excuses for me, and no one left to dispense of my burden.

This will be the case for a long time.

3 comments:

matt said...

I sent you a letter but it was sent back to me, because I forgot to put an address on it. I can be really absentmined. Also, if you type tryharderyall.blogpsot.com, switching the s and p, you go to an evangelical Christian site! I'll resend the letter. In regards to your post several days ago, when I feel down, I watch mindless, old TV sitcoms or I'll watch the news on Iraq, since no matter how bad things seem, at least you're not living in hell. Tea helps, too.

Carrie said...

Hey matt,

I was wondering when I'd hear from you. Thanks for your suggestions.

Coming to NYC anytime soon?

feather said...

This is beautifully written and heartbreaking.

I might be overreaching, but I think I understand it a little -- not the specifics, but echoes of it, that feeling of dreams and reality and how they bleed into each other.