Two weeks from today and I will be done! Only 11 shifts including this one looming over my afternoon!
I am so tired of this job. I am so bored! I haven’t touched by crosswords book or really anything. Mostly I stare out in a self-pitying stupor. When I planned to do this I really thought that 4 months would just swim past. How wrong I was.
I’m also in a mood this afternoon because I drank last night, and I have truly realized its depressant nature. Loosens you up as it flows through your system and tickles all your nerves on the way down. However when it soaks into my muscles and bones and nerves and soul it deadens them. I feel wooden. And I’m always in a weepy mood the next morning. Metaphorically weepy, that is.
Not that I drank all that much last night. I have truly lost all semblance of a tolerance. I had two pints of Heineken and a funny little test-tube of Jaegermeister – which is like drinking a Fisherman’s Friend cough drop – and I was pretty buzzed. I’m such a lightweight! That’s NOTHING! Well, I guess at least in this period when I have no money – I literally have a handful of change to my name this morning – that I am a cheap date for myself. Also good, I suppose, that I find Irish women as inherently unattractive as I could not POSSIBLY afford to have a girlfriend right now. But I get paid today so it should all work out. I really AM living hand-to-mouth. And I don’t like it one bit.
Watched O Brother Where Art Thou? last afternoon with Kevin and Maeve. I really enjoyed the movie, but it was absolutely the music that did it for me. All those southern hymnal bluegrass scratchy record Grand Ole Opry sorts of songs. Made me think of Grandpa Dunford and Mom. George Clooney in the film combed his hair religiously with a black hard rubber comb and even looked sort of like Grandpa. Made me think of him propped back in his burgundy recliner, white socks in black opera slippers, bluegrass on the radio and four crosswords ahead of him. I think he only ever moved to eat meals and to flush them from his weathered body. His hair gleamed charcoal and he smelled strongly of aftershave off his glistening face. Sometimes the blue box would open and the rusty harmonica would wheeze from his fresh licked lips. He’d tell me of the farm of his youth and a basket full of biscuits and ham his only companions on the miles and miles to school. Thick plastic glasses he’d worn ever since they were the thing to wear, hair combed in the manner in which it was combed, attitudes held in the way they were held. He feared and hated blacks and at dinner he would pray for the salvation of his next door neighbor, a Polish Jew who had survived the Holocaust at the cost of his family.
A slow moving, deliberate man. A southern elephant. A wonderful grandfather and a racist southern relic. Exactly the sort of person the south needed to lose or change.
Since I’ve learned and had the chance to think about racism and the south and all that I get a bit confused in my emotions. How could I love a racist? Someone who perpetuated all the things that sadden me about the south and its ability to foster and perpetuate ignorance and intolerance?
I’d like to think it’s because I didn’t know. That I had no choice, being related by blood. And that, after all, is not the way that I feel or think.
I don’t know. There’s a lot of shame, real and manufactured, in the South. And the face of racism can be loving and related, but it is ignorance and fear that allows good people to feel that way. There’s a fear that the past is never far behind, and then normal middleclass white folks march for the Klan and you think that maybe it never left or past. Should I care when Grandma talks about the coloreds? Should we try to change those so late in life? Just wait for the generation to die off and with it their attitudes? No, they stick like gum to a shoe and anyone who walked through it carries it with them, and there’s always a residue left when you try to scrape it off.
But anyway, the music was great and in what I’d like to think was an uncharacteristic act but which I know to be quite the norm, I ran down to Virgin Megastore and bought the soundtrack. Mom would love it – I’ll see if maybe Kevin can burn me a copy. Probably not. He’s big talk and I’ve yet to see even medium action.
Yes, I’ve got the day after drinking blues, and I seem to be steering myself in a substance free direction. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just realize I don’t care for the effects. The cigarette tar tongue, the alcohol morning melancholy, the pot simple stupor. Even chocolate I don’t much care for. In fact, I don’t care for much, but bread and digestive biscuits. And jam. And a fear of being fat. I think I’ve developed a complex about eating. But the formula is so simple – eat less, weigh less. A win/win situation!
I try to be sensible and do things with exercise and fresh fruit and never starving, and though I do eat quite a bit I always leave that edge of hunger. And that can’t be good. But I hate to feel full. But I’m not really eating sensibly – bread and biscuits and chips at work! My gall bladder is starting to throb a bit right now, actually. But the stove is useless so I don’t cook my rice, they don’t have my beans and they don’t have my meatless meats that I adore. Damnation! So I eat CRAP. The stove is awful and there is no fridge space so I only eat cold and boring component foods. And I hate it.
And this house is a goddamned disaster. The floors are a disgrace, people leave open magazines and CDs and dirty dishes and clothes and shoes and bottles and plastic bags and receipts and opened mail and CRAP ALL OVER THE PLACE! Plus everything is so generic and the walls are do dingy that even when I tidy up the living room it still is drab, terribly uninviting, a MESS.
My batteries have died so I can’t listen to my music to work. Aah! BUT I get paid so I’ll buy some batteries and have them for the walk home. Ah, Friday night – drunk nackers on the move! Something to which I can look forward!
My muscles hurt – another symptom of the morning melancholia. My legs will be stiff today, no doubt. And not just on account of walking downtown and back on 3 separate occasions yesterday.
But I want my body to be hard, to be perfect. Because then maybe I could be hard and perfect. I just want to be good and to feel good and to not assume that happiness is a chemical precursor to madness, or indeed the first part of it, as I do. And I know I’ll never be PERFECT. There’s always something. But aren’t I supposed to try to get there? Shoot for the moon and at least you’ll fall amongst the stars? How much is enough? I want to happy and be loved. And I’m trying to get there. And what’s so frustrating is not knowing which way to go. I’m in the middle of a featureless acre and somewhere there’s a tiny sewing needle made of gold. But they’ve spun me round in this blindfold and I could be looking forever. I could just use a little encouragement. A voice to bark “hot” or “cold” as I fumble in the dark.
Off to work. Denied my brand new CD by weary power cells. Full of ham sandwich and digestive biscuits and tea. Off to chew a bunch of gum and eat something, or several something, that I’ll regret all topped off by another ham sandwich.