healing simplicities

I want to wash my hair before people come over.

I want to listen to music.

I want to wash my hair.

I want to listen to music.

I can't wash my hair in my room.

I can't listen to music in the bathroom.

Ekkkk.

So this guy my parents know got fired. He was a photographer for Adnoc for 21 years. And now he has gone back to Sri Lanka, and his wife and daughter moved into a sublet room and they're not allowed to cook. So they are coming over for lunch, and my mum's making Chinese and I am happy! But I should wash my hair, because its all lank and gross. But I am so happy sitting here with music.

Ekkkk.

I don't want to do anything. I'm going to fail bio in about 4 and a half hours, and then I'll come home and do nothing, and then I'll go out and break my feet, and come home again and take a shower and eat. I'm tired of eating.

A bajillion years ago, Sharon and I listened to Naive by the Kooks.

Which is not really too often these past couple of years.

Another thing I don't do too often anymore is write, and I did start on a story about a dying lady. Then I was talking to my mum, and I realised I don't know the first thing about life, forget the second, and definitely forget anything about death.

My mum is soft. ^_^

Anyhow.

I dreamt of a man, with deep wooden skin, an oval head, and round eyes that seemed to pop out when he tried not to die. He lived in an airy gorgeous house, and we ran upstairs to save him three times. There were two women with me, big and round and beautiful. They were careless. I thought of them as Diane and Margaret, though it would be rather ridiculous for them to have names like that. Diane had streams of waving black hair, pulled up from her face and cascading down her back. The staircase was steep, and I'd always pass her on the way up, she'd never take off her heels. I believe Diane was the man's lover. Margaret I never saw, she was always behind me. These two would natter on while I would steel myself for finding a corpse.

I did not know the man, nor do I think I knew Diane. I was rather afraid of him, alive and dead - he was important and serious. At the top of the staircase was a large window, always open, with the flimsiest curtains in a cool blueish white. The steps were just cement, and to the right were double doors. I burst through them three times, against that feeling of horror (accusing white skies and vindy consuming coats much?) into a room with a treacherous floor of wooden bars and empty gaps. A room with a ceiling so high up, I didn't notice it till I hung my head back the next moment. For in the low, deep bed, wrapped up in the sheets as if in a shroud was the man. Diane gathered him up, shroud and all, and took him away, while I gasped against the cold cold wall, trying to understand the ceiling.

The second time, Margaret was afraid. She wouldn't come up the stairs. Diane tried to coax her, she wouldn't go without her, and I went without both of them, my heart beating strong and screaming for time for a man I was afraid of. A man I was afraid for. I burst into that room again, and my stomach fell on finding nothing. The bed was empty, the sheets curled shell-like in the corner. The window here was open as well. the room was cool and white and calm. And I was terrified. There were double doors leading off from the left, and yes, I burst through them as well. This was a pearly bathroom- just a bath and a window. The bath was screened by a creamy satin curtain that pooled onto the floor - the window was bare. I did not want to find him there, I did not, and I didn't. Just shadows on the cold curves of that painfully elegant bath. When I turned, he was outside the window, and my stomach fell a bit further. I went back into the room, to the window, leaned out. He didn't look at me, but rather at the inky blackness that is the edge of my dreams. I've drowned trying to get out. I stepped out into what I assume was a gutter - a sharp piece and a puddle of freezing water and debris. I moved to the opposite side of the window, and he wouldn't look at me. I was scared, and I didn't know what to do, and I had no shoes, so that is what I said. I have no shoes. He sighed, moved back to the window, and dropped himself into the room in a fluid motion. I held the rough surface of the outer wall, fearing for myself now. He was talking to those women, they were talking in their superior voices, and each of his words bloomed as if he'd cultivated them from seeds on the air.

A fact that I can't really fit in anywhere, because I didn't notice it specifically, it is just a fact. He was always wearing a black t shirt and trousers.

The third time I was besides Margaret. She had a blue silky dress, and Diane was in red up ahead. This time I dared to tell her to take her shoes off. The woman laughed, and as usual, I passed her and burst into the room. Again it was empty, the window and doors shut, and Diane laughed again. She laughed like glasses breaking, and sat on the bed. I suppose she thought he'd walk out from the closets or someplace, and I was afraid he wouldn't. Again I burst into the bathroom, and there was watercolour red spreading across that pristine curtain. I knew he was in there and I didn't want to find him there and I couldn't speak, so I swallowed the rocks in my throat and pulled back the curtain. There was no water in the bath, which was odd considering the nature of the stain. He turned his head slightly, and his arms were covered in blood. I pulled one of them out, and there was no wound, just blood, blood everywhere, and looking at him I saw that his tshirt was soaked and I realised he had slashed his stomach. The wall behind him curved over him, and he reached up and left a bloody handprint on the perfect beautiful wall of his perfect beautiful house. I immediately put another one besides it, and he turned and looked at me with his eyes straining and I did not want him to die. I held his head, and he strained to look at me upside down and I closed my eyes and told him about a friend of mine that I'd had to save three times because I was upset and confused and I'd forgotten it was him I was talking about. My hands grew warm about his head and then I was holding nothing, and when I opened my eyes again, I was in Coullioure and my mother was there and I asked, "his stomach?" and she said, oh, Loki is fine, and indeed he was there running besides the sea and annoying an old woman trying to sell souvenirs. So I went on to have the usual disjointed dreams that I have, which I can never really remember, but there was a play and Sharon and I were in it, and also there was a horse.