she has on black leather boots.
it should be a group decision like we did last year, she said.
they like to hear themselves talk. the three young adults started a non profit.
there are many like it in portland.
i lost another molar. i have two missing molars. i don’t know why i feel proud about it. i think it’s an accomplishment.
i don’t get why i listen to some things a person says that offend me deeply and not to other things the same person says that doesn’t offend. i don’t do anything about it because i think i need the critical person more than i need the kind person. i don’t think about my hair thinning as long as i’m productive. when i’m stuck i worry that i’m losing my hair. i can feel the hair shedding. i’m miserable when i produce something that doesn’t make sense to me. it doesn’t have to be agreeable to other people. it’s always nice when it does agree.
i think that it is important for us, she said. we need you to know that we are here and it is ok that you’re part. it’s one year since we all went for broke.
they like to organize and manage. what is management? where are we heading as a non profit? they are moving forward. they are inclusive, not even the down and out are left behind. we have apps for them and camps in the countryside they say. they are
happy. i’m happy for them. i don’t know them but i’m happy that they are confident and that we’re not alone. help is on the way. some of the homeless had a shoot out at an encampment. five street people were killed. help is on the way.
i need doomsday to cope. i may just as well be you, he, them. I is as opaque as madness, and as dull as a chair that falls over. i have a plant on my table. it is my plant to look at and fuss over. it is green and set in a handful of dirt. i still haven’t seen her face. i’ve seen her boots. i like them. they ground me. they have wrinkles and shine in areas. there is music playing. it doesn’t drown out the voices. i would have the music lower. i’d like to hear nothing but voices. it’s soothing to hear them and not to hear my own. my mother was intent on having everything in its place, this included my voice. if i got too loud she would imitate my voice and screech. it shamed me. her voice imitating my voice sounded ugly and i felt ugly. my mother only felt good when she was useful. she hated to be used. it wasn’t easy for her to tell the difference. i like to be used, but i hate it when the user reminds me of it when he languors.
the middle aged man is using his tablet. i tend to think that this is my territory but it is as much his as it is mine. he has changed the tone with his tepid fingers and recently trimmed hair. what is he thinking drinking beer in the early afternoon? it’s mild and grey outside. he should have tea or coffee, not alcohol.
i keep the door to the kitchen closed to keep the heat in the other two rooms. a hairless man has made his home in the kitchen. i don’t want him to find his way to my bedroom. i plugged a hole with steel wool that he has been using in the small room apposite the kitchen. i don’t think he is mankind. i think it is an atypical man. he rises from the dead every time he ingests the poison set out by the maintenance man in two black plastic boxes.