Routine drinking steadies my afternoons now.
The past weeks’ memories are stunted.
Foggy absences, not air but steam somehow, remember:
A haze, the way it was when the tickled version of you focused specifically on his laugh because that was what time was for then and remember:
The tattooed sword on his forearm extended forward, the way he grips the bike, he grips the bike on its stem, flexing his forearm, the sword cuts lines in his forcibly masculine arm and remember:
The impulse to stop things just to stop things, just to point out that things have stopped, in case of an extension into each other, for a paused tension is always only Almost anything and he screams something as you walk home.
Those memories from last night, and there are more of them, jotted in a notebook, staring at me throughout the morning, have been reminding me to remember the things about Him and This and Here that seem to be slipping away.
His shirt off but it wasn’t off but you thought it was off but the bench broke and you didn’t break it, remember:
The woman with the glasses and the cat in the street with the screaming but she ran inside and over the fence was fear for the other one, remember:
…We could blame the alcohol, but that seems sickeningly obvious.
I’m slipping away from myself.
Not the Self I need. The Self I can’t need anymore.
Have you ever loved a person who couldn’t love you back? If you have, and I bet most of us have, you’ll know, it takes a while to recover from the obligation of their rejection as in, they aren’t rejecting you because they aren’t into you, they are rejecting you because they are obligated not to love you, because some other obligation will keep them away from you and because joy has to die somewhere so why not right in the middle of your life—It’s happened to me more than once.
More than once I’ve had men obligate themselves away from me.
The process is tiring and tired and torturous to the ego, the ego who learns that she’s not quite as good as, practically anyone, apparently. Some people speak of built psychological “complexes” or “issues” surrounding abandonment etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.
No, I’ve just had some bad luck. It’s true that bad luck makes Luck a phenomenon worth denying and so I rarely trust social occasions. I rarely trust people. All I do is relive things. And hardly any of those things are joyous.
Joyous is she who wakes up in the morning still laughing from the night before, clinging to nothing but a pen that can only describe the fuzzy edges of what she saw but she saw because she was watching and she was watching because she was there and she was there because she went and she went—why?
She went because she let her self slip away. The other people appeared. She went with them. She did not even notice how lucky she was, this was a good luck evening because she left one friend and ran into more friends, she did not think of Luck, she did not think of anything.
Blame the booze, I understand, alcohol allows for a loss of inhibition but I’ve been sober all morning and I still decided, contrary to my history as a “shy girl”, to ask my friend for company, to keep close to someone I love because it isn’t really luck, is it, that focuses life into a vortex of Good Times for those who have Good Times while those of us having Bad Times are cynically crafting jokes and short stories about it on the sidelines, it isn’t really luck that secures friendships—but it is.
It’s luck and it’s trust that help us slip away and I mean “slip away” in the delicious way, the way in which we should forget ourselves once in a while if only to vacation from the pain that we’ve been forcing ourselves to remember.
I haven’t played Kara once today. I’ve been busy. And, I don’t want to put the wig on. I don’t want to wear the makeup. I don’t want to start avoiding her but, frankly, if I knew her in person I certainly would. It’s been almost three weeks that I’ve known her which is about the amount of time it would take me to completely abandon this person. OR, I would stay friends with her for seven years and tell everyone how much I hate her. No no no no no, I am too old for that.
I am too old for Kara. We’re the same age but I’m way too old for her. She makes me drink, it’s true, I’ve been drinking every afternoon after I work with Kara to make her look good online, to make her an attraction, to make her relevant. It’s the same way an annoying family member or friend would inspire alcoholic tendencies in you, this woman is pissing me off. Of course she’s carefree. She has no memories! Slip away? Kara IS slipped away.
Today I had lunch with a friend on a trendy patio and this woman was showing her friend that she had bought a matching purse and wallet. I didn’t do this because I am an adult human but I wanted to jump on her shoulders, grab her bag and eat it. It’s possible I projected some of my annoyance with Kara onto this woman. It’s also possible that I am really angry. I am really angry that I’m not an idiot. I can act like one all morning but then, I just hate myself to the point of drinking in the afternoon. When sober feels drunk and drunk feels like sobriety, alarm bells should ring.
This is my day off, no photos no wig. Those are the things that build Kara into Kara. It’s so easy for her to build herself. She is a build-a-woman. Is that necessary?
What if I continue to slip away? What if I go out with my friend tonight and just take in the night, come home, go to sleep, wake up, work, go out again, I mean, why construct any memory of anything. What are memories for? I get if you need to remember information, I understand, I’m not ridiculous, I understand why we have cognitive capabilities such as Memory but what about the Instances that won’t go away.
Instagram feeds quake with the production of memories every day but the whole world is just focused on pumping out more of them, there’s no recall, there’s no call-back. Facebook calls back to memories but Facebook is apparently for old people. Now it’s Snapchat, Instagram, here I am one second but I’m gone the next, it’s just a generation of people who live for right now and then what.
What happens to the Karas who refuse their memories? Who don’t bother to look back?
I’ll tell you why we need memories, and this isn’t a neurological explanation because I don’t know a neurological explanation but I do know that if not for memories we would be emotionally malfunctioned. Maybe that’s obvious: We learn what pain is because we remember pain, and love and sadness, how to deal with those things and so on, our memories are really, they are very necessary.
I happen to have a terrible memory and that’s why I’ve been writing everything down since practically the age of eight. I’m not at all worried about the quality of what I’ve written. I can picture my whole evening last night based on the notes I kept. Those notes, though, if you’ll notice, are descriptive. They are non-judgemental. I had slipped away, away from opinion and away from hope and away from need enough to come out of the night with eventful memories that couldn’t harm me.
Kara has no memories. She has her vanity and her little life. That’s it, the end. She is an extreme. I don’t want to be an extreme. I just want to be slipped away.