. . . . in which i am sat facing dad, who seems to be upright as if in that leather arm chair . . . i touch his hand or wrist and realise it is warm, almost hot . . . i ask him if he is still alive and he responds animatedly but not exactly verbally . . . i ask him what it was that I needed to know but he just laughs and slumps to the side . . . .

new business idea in which i travel door to door informing people that the rose that is growing in their garden is in fact a dr huey and needs either to be cut back to the ground if it can be rescued or else removed and replaced for a voluntary donation

the state of the liberal media in 2025 is as if a theater critic who is reviewing a production of hamlet starring a chimpanzee and faithfully examines aspects of the chimp’s pacing, his convention-breaking interpretation, his stage presence, while he is throwing literal shit at us, the audience

lucy and i seem to be in a similar place only thousands of miles away and only talking sparingly . . . not intentionally but perhaps more her intolerance of talking on the phone or similar. still plagued by the same persistent thoughts in quiet moments. the fact that the world has become a darker place, that all my relationships, my estimation of others has been forever tarnished by virtue of knowing just how wicked a person like that can really be. i had no idea a person could be so cold, calculating and ruthless in the pursuit of self preservation in the days, hours really, after their closest person dies. i’m mad at myself for not pressing the point harder when i still had a chance. i’m mad at myself for giving away the combination when i had no clue as to their motivation. destroying the evidence. i’m mad at dad for not figuring this out when he had the chance. did he just believe too much in others’ willingness to do the right thing? there’s no way of telling now. all i have is my silence. the only power i have left. and there’s no way to tell if the old witch is dead, no satisfaction in it either. as lucy said, just the dreaded confirmation that there was never anything there, no love, no instinct to protect your weakest, your most in need, so clouded by resentment and petty jealousy of your fucking children that you can’t even see you became everything you always hated the most.

when i change the pillow cases, i think of shirley; when i change the fitted sheet i think of katherine; when i change the duvet cover i think of my own ineptitude.

the doorbell rang today and i rushed downstairs to answer. as i opened the door a woman was walking away. hello, i called and, looking down, i noticed the flowers she had left, an arrangement in soft pinks and whites, and wanted to call out, i think there’s been some mistake. but she intercepted and when she mentioned my name i realized that this lovely surprise was quite real.

saw a guy today going down lombard on a beach cruiser while carrying a twin mattress on his back. i’m pretty sure he’s dead now

i just noticed that dad’s rose, the blue moon, is starting to bud out today, after i all but killed it last year. i think it might just make it. his other one, the iceberg, or what i thought was an iceberg, is coming in strong too, so much new growth, and all the buds coated in greenfly, which i suppose is good for the ladybirds or something. one of them is so close to flowering and it’s bright pink, which was a bit of a surprise to be honest, because it’s supposed to be white and i thought for a second it might be another case of the mystery rose showing up, but they sometimes do that from what i learned, so i’m giving it the benefit of the doubt. blue and white, just like every god damn shirt he ever owned.

• «
• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• 5
• 6
• 7
• 8
• »