Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Game Point

Magic likes to volley, but not in an amicable, Pong sort’ve way. There’s no waiting in magic; when inspiration hits you need to get shit done, STAT, otherwise you’ll find yourself stalling, and the longer it takes you to “serve”, the longer the universe has to prepare to spike your lazy fucking ass. (HAVING PLAYED NEITHER VOLLEYBALL NOR BADMITON PROFESSIONALLY IN ANY SENSE, I CAN CONCLUDE, WITH MY VERY LITTLE ELEMENTARY/HIGH SCHOOL EXPERIENCE, THAT SERVING AND OFF-SETTING SPIKING CAN BE VERY, VERY HARD WHEN PLAYING ONE-ON-ONE ON A FULL SIZED COURT.) How ever you decide to approach it there’s one thing for certain – it’s been impatiently waiting to bounce the ball back into your court while you were pissing time away.

I’ve experienced the instantaneous return enough to know better than to sit on shit. (One of these days I’ll eventually get around to logging the story of how Papa told me to boil and bury an egg, and then hatched me out a bird. <- THESE ARE NOT, IN FACT, LYRICS FROM A PETER, PAUL, AND MARY SONG DESPITE THE FANTASTICAL ELEMENT OF THE RIDICULOUS AND IMPOSSIBLE. (LIKE BEING WARY OF THE LEMON TREE, OR SAILING AROUND IN A SHOE, OR THAT PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON WASN’T ACTUALLY A METAPHOR OR REFERENCE TO DRUGS.)) But sit on shit, dear diary-journal-log-book of shadows, I still do. (NOTE: IF YOU FIND YOURSELF REREADING THIS ENTRY IN A FEW YEARS TIME AND THAT EMPTY BOTTLE OF RUM THAT HASN’T BEEN FILLED WITH GRAVEYARD DIRT AND HASN’T BEEN PLACED UNDER THE BED STILL HASN’T BEEN FILLED WITH GRAVEYARD DIRT OR BEEN PLACED UNDER THE BED (LIKE THE OLD MAN INSTRUCTED) THEN YOU HAVE A SERIOUS, CHRONIC CONDITION THAT HAS ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING CURE.)

...except for this time.

Chippy, for better or for worse, is a demon-about-town. (You wouldn’t expect an entity composed of jackals, snakes, scorpions, lions, eagles, and an emaciated man (whose apparent existence was-is-was built on a foundation of disease, famine, chaos, and death) to be inherently metrosexual, but you would be wrong. (And how wrong you would be!)) He enjoys the finer things in life – food, bathing, perfumes, fashion, long walks down country roads near cattle and sheep that can be easily crazed into a murderous stampede (WHEN YOU TAKE A VERY ANIMAL-LIKE DEMON YOU’VE TRAINED LIKE A DOG FOR A WALK ALWAYS MAKE SURE HE’S WEARING HIS COLLAR AND LEASH OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES OF BOVINE ON HUMAN VIOLENCE! <- THEY WILL TRY AND SCALE ANCIENT STONE WALLS TOPPED BY BARBED WIRE WITH THEIR SUPPOSEDLY HERBAVOIRE HOOVES. TRUST ME ON THIS.), the occasional soup bone, lesbians (<- he’s male, it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise), and reading the Sunday paper (I think he might just be looking at the pictures which, I know, isn’t really “reading” but it doesn’t require me to teach a demon all about the written word so I’m not about rain on his possible picture parade).

After seriously disrupting our lives when he first appeared Chippy house-trained well (or, at least, well enough to this MAGIC NOVICE who, at the time, decided the best way to work with the incorporeal was by using something corporeal – a large, plush Shar Pei stuffed animal in his case. <- I HAD SEVERAL DREAMS WHERE CHIPPY WAS “GIVEN” TO ME, AND, FOR WHATEVER REASON, HIS CHOSEN FORM WAS OF A SHAR PEI TOY EVER SINGLE FUCKING TIME, SO I JUST WENT WITH IT.), and settled into family life quickly. (I’d maybe almost say that there was slight desperation, on his part, to be with me/to be here, and the prospect of being alone, in the end, totally outweighed the prospect of “sharing”. (<- AND NOW HE IS ALL ABOUT SHARING. SERIOUSLY.)) In his very genuine attempt to fit into a family structure and become relevant to the household we would often find him copying other people’s (or other things’) preferences, or mimicking/trying to get involved in whatever activity we were currently engaged in.

Reading the paper has become something of a weekly institution for us. It’s simultaneously A SERIOUS BANE TO MY EXISTANCE (when it takes me over a fucking week to get through it – AND I DON’T EVEN READ THE ENTIRE GODDAMN PAPER!), and an idealized Sunday morning/afternoon that’s often fantasized about (inviting/invoking everyone to join us for some homemade French toast or pancakes, bacon, coffee, sloppy Mimosas, the Sunday Times, and an inexhaustible amount of pot), but rarely executed. I’m sure it was during one of those few, magnificent lazy days that Chippy inevitably linked READING with HAVING A GOOD TIME (<- OH, GOD, IS THIS WHAT IT’S LIKE WHEN YOU’RE A SMART PERSON WHO ENDS UP HAVING A STUPID KID? JESUS.) since a lot of our relationship developed around associating one thing with another (i.e., understanding that when I was interacting with the plush dog I was actually interacting with him).

Chippy normally sticks to the FASHION and ARTS & CULTURE supplements and sometimes, on the very rare occasion, the main section of the Sunday Times. (We have this in-joke when I’ll ask him what’s going on in the world and he’ll respond with something like “TROUBLE IN MIDDLE EAST, WOMAN!” and I’ll LOL and he’ll LOL despite the joke being old, BUT NOT AS OLD AS THE CONCEPT OF “TROUBLE IN THE MIDDLE EAST” TO A SUMERIAN ENTITY!) On a particular Saturday night, a few weeks back, Chippy requested the “money” section of the newspaper out of the blue. When I asked him what the fuck he wanted it for he said he was going to use it to get me money. (SCORE!) I spent something like a half hour tearing the fucking house apart looking for the very specific section he requested which I never read in the first place which ultimately meant IT WAS ONE OF THE VERY FIRST PARTS OF THE PAPER TO GET DUMPED. (Christ.)

Of course I couldn’t find the damn thing, so he had to be placated with the “business” section from that week and was given the promise that he could have the “money” section from the paper that we’d be getting the next day. That night Chippy went to bed with the folded business section of the paper tucked between his mouse pillow and the wall. (YES, HE DOES GET TUCKED IN EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, AND FURTHER MORE HE REFUSES TO SLEEP IN THE BED WE GOT HIM FOR CHRISTMAS LAST YEAR – HE USES THAT AS HIS LOCKER ROOM – AND SNOOZES ON THE FLOOR RIGHT NEXT TO MY SIDE OF THE BED USING A MOUSE PILLOW FOR HIS PILLOW AND MY ROBE FOR A BLANKET AND I KNOW I SHOULD BE STRICT AND FIRM AND GET HIM TO SLEEP IN HIS DAMN BED BUT IT’S CRAZY HARD TO IGNORE THE PITIFUL SOUND OF HIS WHINING DEEP INSIDE MY BRAIN WHEN I’M TRYING TO GET MY SLEEP ON.) And there, dear diary-journal-log-book of shadows, it sat, and I wondered how the hell the universe was going to work its magic by having me give an entity-cum-toy-cum-idol a piece of newsprint. (We briefly thumbed through the articles but nothing caught our eyes.)

It sat for a week, maybe two. (Maybe less with the way my memory works. <- AN UNFORTUNATE SIDE-EFFECT FROM THE HABITUAL USE OF WEED, BUT AN UNFORTUNATE SIDE-EFFECT THAT IS WORTH THE PRICE!) One evening when we were smoking up in the bedroom the first fly of the season graced us with its presence. (A VERY FATAL MISTAKE, MY LITTLE FRIEND!) As it sprung off walls and buzzed around agitated I gave it the warning most “beasts” (<- BY FAR ONE OF MY FAVORITE UK/SCOTTISH COLLOQUISMS!) get in this house – “CHIPPY, TELL YOUR FRIEND TO LEAVE OR I’M GOING TO SWAT ITS FUCKING ASS!”. (Almost every insect is referred to as one of Chippy’s “friends” with him being THE (MESOPOTAMIAN) LORD OF FLIES AND ALL.)

When the fly didn’t haul ass I called fair game and scouted, while very, very high, for something to smack it with. And THEN I had one of those MAGIC INSPIRATION MOMENTS brought on by a serious head rush (<- THE VERY BEST SORT OF MAGIC INSPIRATION MOMENTS!) and I was all “OH SHIT! I NEED THAT FLY! DON’T LET THAT FLY GET AWAY!”. (I can’t remember the exact details, but the idea was rhyming HONEY and MONEY while submerging the fly in the liquid BECAUSE OH MY GOD FLIES LIKE HONEY AND THEREFORE IT CAN BE EASILY USED IN SOME SORT OF MONEY RITUAL SPELL THING WHERE THE FLY REPRESENTS MONEY AND WE REPRESENT THE HONEY AND ALL WE WOULD HAVE TO DO IS PRESERVE THE FLY IN HONEY UNTIL WE NEED IT AND THEN WE CAN JUST BURN IT ON A CHARCOAL BLOCK AND HOW ACE AND WONDERFUL AND TERRIFIC IS THAT?! Fine. It made sense to my brain, anyway.)

There was absolutely nothing suitable in the bedroom to do the job, EXCEPT FOR A NEWSPAPER SECTION THAT COULD EASILY GET ROLLED UP INTO A TUBE THAT WAS OTHERWISE JUST SITTING ON THE FLOOR, BETWEEN THE WALL AND PILLOW, WAITING TO BE USED FOR –SOMETHING MONEY RELATED-! Perfect, except the fly wouldn’t die and I wasn’t sure how the fuck I was going to shake out A LIVING, BREATHING, FLYING FLY THAT MOST CERTAINLY WAS NOT DEAD IN THE SLIGHTEST out of the jar it was in without losing it. So I spent five minutes, high off my ass, running around with a stackable compartment of containers that screw into one another, desperately trying to think of a solution to my mad cap idea. (I instantly ruled out “JUST LEAVE IT AND LET IT DIE BY SLOW SUFFERCATION!” because, well...Santa Muerte and all of that. WE ARE ALL ABOUT DEATH BEING A HAPPILY ANTICIPATED RELEASE AND RELIEF FROM THE TOILS OF LIFE HERE AT CHEZ GRAVEYARD DIRT.)

Armed with an ash tray, a small metal skewer (FLY KABABS, ANYONE?), a jar of honey, and my stackable, circular compartments all screwed into one another (containing very important things like MY WITCH HAIRS and DEAD SPIDERS! <- IF I SAID I WASN’T TRYING HARD, NAY, IF I SAID I WASN’T EVEN TRYING AT ALL WOULD YOU BELIEVE ME?) I was able to carry out my first ritual sacrifice – crushing and submerging a fly into decanted honey while saying something along the lines “LIKE FLIES TO HONEY, I CALL WEALTH, SUCCESS, AND MONEY!” (<- “SO MOTE IT BE!”, J/K! LOLOLOLOLOLOL!). (And if that wasn’t outrageous enough for you I ALSO WEAR, BUY, AND WORSHIP FUR COATS and ENJOY VEAL WHENEVER POSSIBLE. <- CLEARLY I AM DEMONSTRATING MY INABILITY TO ADHERE TO ANCIENT WICCAN LAWS OF ETHICS AND MORALITY. <- LULZ @ U, LOOSERS! THE ONLY “THREE FOLD RULE” I ACKNOWLEDGE IS WHEN I’M MAKING CHINESE FORTUNE TELLERS OUT OF PAPER! Do you want number 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, or 8...?)

So, ritual-wise, that’s the work done. (If you count “FINDING A PROPER CONTAINER THAT ISN’T AN ASHTRAY SHOVED INTO A ZIPLOC BAG SITTING ON MY ALTAR/NIGHTSTAND WITH EVERY OTHER FUCKING THING THAT DOESN’T NEED TO BE OUT (BUT, FOR SOME EXPLICABLE REASON, IS) TO STORE AND PROPERLY SEAL THE FLY FOR LATER USE” as “work”.) And, for once, I was ready for the spike, which means I shouldn’t be surprised at the immediacy of these things because, really, THERE SHOULD BE NO EXCUSE FOR ME LAMELY LETTING THE BALL DROP IN MY COURT WHEN IT’S MY TURN TO SERVE OR SET BECAUSE I FUCKING KNOW BETTER BY THIS POINT.

FOR REAL NOTES: Chippy was given the business section from the Feb. 10th, 2008 edition of The Sunday Times. He should have gotten the money section, but it was gone-ed. He received the section on Feb. 16th, 2008 with the promise he could have the money section from the paper the following day (the Feb. 17th, 2008 edition).

Together

There are two things I look for when I go to the local (medical) clinic. The first is VICTORIAN DOCTOR EXTRODINAIRE (it’s a slightly kempt-but-unkempt look of black corduroy blazers, vintage dark clothing, and overtly maudlin expressions plastered over an anaemic, alabaster complexion – sort’ve a Victorian-gothic-emo-art student look, with major emphasis on “art student” since I doubt this particular MD has even hit his 30s (<- one of these days I’ll end up being assigned to him for some sort of marvellous medical malady and I’m 78% sure he’ll diagnosed me with “female hysteria” (that’s redundant, isn’t it?) and manually masturbate me to settle that particular hormone-induced humour), and his horse-drawn buggy. The other is SEX TIPS WRITTEN FOR MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN BY MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN FOR MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN WHO READ ABOUT SEX TIPS WRITTEN FOR MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN BY MIDDLE-AGED WOMEN IN THE DOCTOR’S WAITING ROOM.

Apparently, couples only spend an average of 10 minutes of “quality time” together. Both Italics and I LOLed in our own secret LOLing sort’ve way as we waited for longer than 10 minutes for my appointment, and then spent another 10 minutes – together – in the doctor’s office, only to be followed with another 5-7 minutes together in the pharmacy, and then home, where we spent the rest of the day doing our usual daily stuff – together. In fact, I’m able to very scientifically calculate how long we were “apart” yesterday (at least from my perspective)...approximately one hour. (I woke up an hour before he did to get ready for my appointment.)

...but that’s just your run-of-the-mill, average, normal, totally every-damn-day for us. We work together, we relax together, we go out together, we tan together, we bathe together, we shop together, we exercise together, we eat together, we do the chores together – Christ, we even sleep together. (There’s a nightly ritual that involves very specific sleeping positions – when he comes to bed he slings an arm around my waist or hips, and then, after 10-15 minutes, the positions are changed, and then, a little later on, I’ll usually break away to roll over onto my stomach to finally nod off for real serious. (<- I’M A STOMACH SLEEPER WHO IS ALL ABOUT SPREADING IT THE FUCK OUT.))

There are no secrets. (GIFTS OBVIOUSLY DON’T COUNT!) There are no disputes over who does what, and chores, for the most part, are easily interchangeable with no disagreements whatsoever. (In fact, I think he might vacuum (<- NO! I JUST COMMITTED THE CARDINAL SIN OF MISSPELLING “VACUUM”! THERE IS NO “CUM” IN VACUUM; THERE IS NO “CUM” IN VACUUM!) more than I do since I do the majority of dusting.) No arguing about money, no arguing about dates forgotten, no arguing about being neglected, no arguing about one person doing more than the other – we just don’t have that sort of relationship. (In a way, our domestic/daily life mirrors a lot of my/our personal spiritual beliefs – there isn’t one side that’s more important than the other (even though both sides bring something entirely different - but entirely complimentary – to the table), and without the other half you have an incomplete machine that just doesn’t work.)

It’s sickening, I know. I’ll spare you the clichéd “I’M SO AWESOME AND MY PARTNER IS SO AWESOME AND WE’RE SO AWESOME TOGETHER AND CHECK OUT THIS TOTALLY AWESOME STORY/CONVERSATION WE JUST HAD” entry, because this isn’t livejournal, and I’m not that much of a loser. (“Awesome” is just one of those words that YOU CANNOT APPLY TO YOURSELF WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A SHAMELESS FUCKTARD. It’s one of those words that YOU EARN and ARE GIVEN BY OTHER PEOPLE.)(Also, the chances of your TOTALLY AWESOME, LOLERIFIC CONVERSATION YOU HAD WITH YOUR TOTALLY AWESOME, TOTALLY FUNNY PARTNER THAT YOU JUST HAD TO SHARE WITH THE ENTIRE POPULATION OF THE INTERNET actually being totally awesome, LOLerific, and totally funny is less than bleak. In fact, it’s whatever makes bleak look bleak in the first place. PLEASE JUST TRUST ME ON THIS, OKAY?) Italics and I have a good, solid working relationship, and it’s both the cause and effect of how every aspect of our lives is entwined with the other.

All of this is really just a sloppy way of saying things are going well for us, and that my inability to make a daily journal become a daily habit is evident of the honeymoon phase we’ve been experiencing. Things are getting done, things are happening, but I just don’t have the time to sit down and record everything. I impatiently waited for Ash Wednesday to roll around, and when it finally did I’ve barely managed to log even shitty “shorthand” notes that have been tumbling around in my brain. (At least I haven’t forgotten most of it – LIKE NOSE IN THE EYE! Note: OW!)

I know, eventually, I’ll be able to crack this, because, like writing, it requires patience, practice, and perseverance. (Writing, by the way, also requires “talent”, although a significant number of internet users would emphatically disagree with this elitist and downright fascist statement.) Eventually I’ll find my “voice”, my narrative will find a happy medium between “formal” and “informal”, and I’ll get past the need to sound a certain way (who’s this journal for, anyway?) and I’ll feel comfortable enough to hammer out erratic-cryptic messages fuelled by excessive drug use (in all caps). Until then, I need to stop icing myself with layers of delicious tasting guilt (GUILT? ME? OH, BABY, I AM -ALL ABOUT GUILT-!)(Did I ever tell you how I desperately wanted to be a nun when I was a kid because “Agnes of God” was one of my favourite movies? I STILL FIT THE CATHOLIC MOLD! <- LULZ, AND PLEASE FEEL FREE TO CREATE YOUR OWN REASON FOR LOLING AT THAT PARTICULAR DECLARATION!) just because five entries later on Graveyard Dirt isn’t what I envisioned it to be.

I’ve always been really impatient with beginnings; maybe because I’m just so damn good with endings.

I Had To Find God

I wander a lot when I’m writing, and I don’t mean in a figurative, rambling sense. (By this point, I certainly HOPE I’ve crawled out of that quagmire, or at least when it counts. (Livejournal, of course, doesn’t count.)) When I’m suddenly inspired to sit down and document something, or begin a new story, I have to fight off the urge to float from room to room.

I don’t actually do anything other than stroll into the empty space and stare out the window for a few minutes before absently shuffling off to the next segregated area of the house to do the same. I know what I’m supposed to be doing, but I’m not doing it, and I’m resisting it to the point that I’m half a house away, in a different room, stupidly staring out a window or a door for no reason at all. (Depression and writing, I guess, aren’t that entirely different.)

The paragraph above isn’t really that meaningful. (Christ, maybe it is?) I haven’t written anything proper in over two years (“I had to find God,” I joked to Italics), but the motions, the mind frame, the annoying quirks are all still there. I haven’t written anything in over two fucking years, but it all came racing back with February 8th’s journal entry, and today, not five minutes before parking my ass in my computer chair, I found myself in the kitchen. (And then in the lounge, and then in the back room...) I found myself staring out the windows, and when I caught myself there was an internal “LOL!” moment. Some things are never really forgotten. (It’s hard to separate a writer from their writing, and that includes all of those annoying quirks I mentioned, and all the psychological rituals that become paramount for a satisfying day “at work”.)

I’ve been bad about documenting things, and I know better. I could probably scrape by the bare minimum that happened between Imbolc (I don’t consider myself involved in a particular branch of “paganism”, but in the past year (or so) I’ve developed an appreciation for welcoming (and coming to terms with) seasonal changes, and celebrating THE BIG DAYS along with THE LITTLE DAYS, even if THE LITTLE DAYS just means a perfectly clean house, a special meal, and as much sex as either of us can manage after overindulging on food) and Ash Wednesday (I don’t consider myself involved in a particular branch of “Christianity”, but in the past year (or so) I’ve developed an appreciation for – never mind, I don’t know how to finish the joke but FEEL FREE TO DO SO ON MY BEHALF, JUST MAKE SURE IT’S LEGITIMATELY FUNNY AND ISN’T GAY, OKAY?).

Our Imbolc, Mari Gras, and Ash Wednesday got swept under an Indica rug, which left me drowsy, listless, and fatigued. (This particular strain is-was-is perfect for the night, just not so perfect for heavily active days, but when it’s the only thing you’ve got in the house...) Several days ago we received some Sativa, and it feels like everything is back on track. We’ve got a tremendous amount of work done (everything from ACTUAL WORK to MAGIC WORK to REALIZATIONS I SHOULD’VE REALIZED A LONG ASS TIME AGO), and I couldn’t be happier with how things are progressing. (Fine, that’s a partial lie – you can always be a little happier, but remembering where I was a year ago, I’m more than content with where I am right now.)

When writing this particular entry I committed the cardinal sin of wandering away for a joint outside (with flawless Scottish sunrises like this it’s hard to not to bask in the warmth of radiant, orange light while enjoying your first THC shot of the day – even if you’re wearing your husband’s retired bathrobe and his foamy flip-flops while standing ankle deep in frost), and lost my train of thought. To remedy the expected outcome (THE EASY WAY OUT?) I had a shower, but to no avail. The train – er, bus – remains derailed. It’s enough I sat down and re-familiarized myself with Word, maybe later today I’ll transcribe my “shorthand” notes before I manage to forget my native tongue.

Two Worlds and In-between

I never thought I would be here again; thinking of a title before an entry, staring at an empty sheet of white, biting the edge of my finger while trying to decide how to start it all again. I’m years out of practice, but there’s an aching familiarity to it all. Even with a new version of Word I fall back into rhymic thought, watching the black cursor flash across the screen as I try and find my lost narrative. It’s been years, yet it all trickles back as words begin to cover this ocean of flawless white.

Nearly five, maybe six years on I still haven’t learned my lesson. (Or, maybe, I did, but the masochist in me just likes picking at the scars.) There’s no real anonymity on the internet, even when you leave out street addresses and change names. I’ve struggled with this dilemma for years, especially when it became clear that the need to keep a diary (or journal, or some sort’ve log of events) resurfaced. “Is it my ego?” I asked Italics, “Is it because of what we’re doing?”. He didn’t have any answers.

What is it about this particular medium that manages to attract and hold my attention? Last year, really the beginning of Everything, I tried to keep a page a day diary. The days, the dates, the lines – everything I needed, or wanted, was pre-printed for me in this gigantic, hardback book. I managed for a few weeks, and then the entries began to taper off into month long absences, and finally around mid-year my attempt to keep a log of events (and ideas, and notes) had diminished completely, and even thinking about scribbling down reminders or references became too much effort.

Even after I committed the half-naked diary to the confines of a drawer the desire to keep a journal refused to subside. The need picks at me, making me desperate and agitated. I don’t know why I have to have a public arena at this point in my life, especially with the content I’m intending to write about, but the drive is there, and it’s relentless. I could swim in this ocean of white space privately, discreetly saving and shuffling every breaststroke into an unmarked folder, but I know that within weeks my arms would get tired, or I’d get bored breaking the surface of the water with no one to watch.

Despite knowing the consequences, I conceded. (When the essence of your being can be reduced to life, death, and resurrection (and sex, death, and war) you have a hard time lifting your hand against one of the greatest pageants of life that defines you.) As someone who identifies, and is governed by, Death I find myself in a precarious situation - do I force my hand and stop the cycle, or do I become the sacrificial lamb? How can someone who represents the endless whirlpool pull herself out of the water when she is the water? She can’t.

"You know it's too late to change your mind; you've always known the second you put your feet on this path you would follow through with it completely."

It's Time It Begins

(More of an uneasy dream than "nightmare", woke up and spent a portion of the morning feeling somewhat unsettled.)

You're pregnant but you don't know why or how. There's no back story; you're pregnant and practically at full term. You've also been cut. In the darkness (most of this happens during the darkest hours of the night) in some large, black room (abandoned stately house? abandoned warehouse?) a man cut you across your swollen stomach. (An attack? Doesn't seem likely. It feels more like a home attempt at a cesarean.)

The wound bleeds, but it isn't deep. You support your stomach with both hands, holding on either side of the base so the laceration doesn't worsen. Blood seeps through your t-shirt, but it isn't enough to draw unwanted attention. Italics is with you, but is in the background, saying nothing, and doing nothing.

You're in the ocean. There's no reason, no explanation to bridge the black room with the black sea. It isn't cold, just dark. Lights on the buildings on the shore look orange-yellow, and twinkle almost citrine against the backdrop of night. You wade to shore, the ocean's calm, and Italics is by your side. You tell him you have to go to the hospital, holding your pregnant stomach with both hands. The blood on your t-shirt has dried to a flaky rust.

Your hospital room is small, just large enough to hold the bed. There's an uneasy feeling in the room. Tension, anxiety. You might have had a fight with Italics, but the room is now silent. It's just you two, and you're sitting with your hands on your abdomen, always holding the cut stomach. (Is it protective? Is it worry? Is it a fear that you'll somehow lose it? Are you just resting your hands because you don't know what else to do with them?)

You're impatient. The bed is small. You keep looking towards the door, wanting to move, wanting to stay active. No one comes. Italics is falling asleep. It's just you and the sinking feeling that these are the last few hours of your life. You aren't sure if you're scared of death, or scared of the possibility of living. You aren't terrified, or petrified. You're uneasy. Anxious. Tense. You can't stop thinking. (Are you suddenly uncertain?)

You leave the room. You leave Italics. You wander the halls of the modern hospital. Everything is white, everything is glass. Everything is metal, framing the "open" structure so glass acts as the roof and sides of the building. You're looking for the room you'll be delivering in, you know it's in the "G" wing. You were told the number, but you've forgotten. It's enough that you know the floor/wing, and you wander through a closed hall, hearing parts of conversation that are significant.

"How many women have died in this ward?" "30, maybe 40."
"You know there's a fifty percent chance she won't make it if she has to get a white blood cell shot. You don't know your allergic to it until it's given to you."

You're a ghost in the halls and you're being told how you're going to die.

There's nothing. No screaming, no crying, no resistance. Calmly, quietly, and uneasy each step takes you closer to the moment of truth. You're alone. He's sleeping. Your hands on your belly, and you find yourself standing in a food court. There are stands instead of "shops". The room is circular, gigantic. Cathedral glass ceiling. Full-sized trees growing in containers, and green trailing plants hanging over the roof of each "stand".

You're standing in the middle of a modern, indoor utopia. There's no pushing, no raised voices. People move with a purpose, they slide against one another. You remain a ghost, standing there. No one questions the pregnant woman holding her stomach in a blood-stained t-shirt. People walk by with steaming cups of coffee. Without any thought, without any reason you turn around to return to the room.

More tension. Italics briefly wakes up. Groggy, irritable. (He wants you to stay put?) Nods back off. The time is closer. You're probably watching a clock. You wait for Her because you know She will appear soon. You watch him sleep. You watch the clock. Time passes, and you're alone, holding your mortality in your hands.

She's blond. Cheerful. Wearing white. You look at Italics for the last time. He continues to sleep. You wonder if he knows that this is the last time he might see you alive. You wonder if him being asleep was deliberate. You feel a degree of sadness, maybe even a touch of regret. (You think of your younger self with him, but older. You wonder if it's worth it.) Where you are going he can't come with.

You don't say good-bye, you just leave.

The time is closer. She walks with you making friendly conversation. You're drinking a can of diet coke, and with one hand you continue to hold your abdomen. She laughs and says you shouldn't be drinking that right now. I don't know what you're thinking, but I think you don't think it matters. I think you think its funny and sad.

There is no hope. No feeling of excitement. You're there, serving the purpose you intended. You're about to have a baby, but there's no maternal feelings. (No happiness. No joy. No anticipation.) There's nothing. Just you, silence, and the nurse talking as we pass closed off rooms in the "G" wing. You inevitably think of Italics.

You aren't given a wheelchair until you're at the threshold of the room. When you sit your leg skids, and you nearly miss the seat of the chair. You're not usually that clumsy. (But you are, because I am. And you're drinking a diet soda and being told that you shouldn't because of my esophagus condition.) It's an unexpected slip. (So unexpected?)

It's tiny. Clinical. There's a black leather gynecology bed but nothing else. No sheets. No pillows. No blankets. The leather is worn, and broken in places, barely kept together with aged tape. This is the room where you will live and die. You just stare at the empty bed. Think about Italics. Recycle the conversations you've heard.

You wait to hear her tell you she'll need to give you a shot because of your white blood cells. You wait for the birth you'll never see the end of. You think of Italics, sleeping, and there is uncertainty. He makes you silently question. You know it's too late to change your mind; you've always known the second you put your feet on this path you would follow through with it completely.

Your waiting is finally over. It's time it begins.