Fingernails on a chalkboard.

4 days and counting. And so much extra energy already.

…

Third mistaken bombing by NATO in a week. A week and 3 apologies from the US Commander on the ground in Afghanistan for accidentally killing civilians. What the fuck does an apology do? If this were happening somewhere in the West people would be up in arms, livid, rioting. If this were happening somewhere in the West to white people…

…this would not be happening somewhere in the West to white people.

If Stringer or Omar die I’m going to cry.

Nobody likes to have reality shoved in their face. We’d much rather live in denial. The last couple of weeks this has become quite clear. Yesterday and today in particular.

Today I went on a cleaning spree. Coffee in hand I scrubbed shower, bath and toilet, swept and mopped every hard surface in my house and did at least a months worth of dirty dishes. Then I watched Malcolm X speeches on youtube. And The Wire. Had planned to stay home tonight to meet couchsurfer David from Madrid, but he called to tell me he missed his connecting flight and would be arriving tomorrow morning. Thought about ordering pizza. Thought about drinking martinis at Monal. Thought about using my free pass to the MG film festival. Planned to go out, then planned to stay in.

Now I’m sitting on my bed with head in hand, Rumi curled up beside me molting all over my relatively clean sheets. I’m looking forward to winter. And I’m dreaming about New York. The only thing that got me through work last night was fantasising old-school style, like I haven’t done for years, about the future. Pure escapism.

This morning I woke up to the sound of a message. I dragged my tingly limbs out of bed, picked up my phone; a message from an unlikely sender. And in the haze that is waking up I realised I had been dreaming about unlikely sender. I never dream about him. And he only occasionally messages me. Bizarre.

Perhaps I’ll open the bottle of wine that has been sitting on my desk for months. The desk that functions as a laundry basket, garbage bin, clothes line, dresser…but never as a desk. Perhaps I’ll eat pizza, drink wine, watch The Wire, dream about somewhere else and finish my book tonight. Sounds like perfection. 

I deleted my entire inbox and sent items the other day in a moment of catharsis. Messages from two years ago that I was holding on to. And today I discover two messages from you hiding in my phone. How did they get there? How did they manage to stay there even when I attempted to delete everything? You still get under my skin no matter how hard I try to get rid of you.

‘Usually when people are sad they don’t do anything. They just cry over their condition. But when they get angry, they bring about a change.’

- Malcolm X

What is my problem?

I want to smoke and smoke and smoke. I want to light one cigarette after the other and sit on the front step until the sun comes up.

I only have 5 cigarettes left.

12:10am. 4 weeks. More even. 28th December, 2009. And now you text me.

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