the territory beneath my ribs

My little girl got stood up last night, and today, and that's a bunch of shit. It would have been her first date.

I've been doing nothing but reading The Corrections all weekend. Jonathan Franzen is one of those authors who "gets it" so well I think I'd be afraid to meet him in person... because he'd "get me" too well, too. Read the book, though.

It occurred to me I missed my Papa a couple days ago, so I began writing a letter to him. His hearing has diminished so I've been writing to him regularly for about the last four years so we can still keep in touch. I only see him once a year, and this last Christmas it seemed certain that it would be the last time I would see him.

Today I called Dad just to make sure nothing was wrong, and to make him promise to call me if Papa ever had trouble. Dad was in the car driving to Key West to kick it with the girlfriend he's had three years... who I've only met twice. Dad noted that I sounded upset. I make a point to not sound upset when I call family long-distance, because it only causes worry.

Then I upset myself with how upset I couldn't keep from sounding, so I just got the information that Papa had suffered vertigo the last few days but other than was fine, and I got off the phone. My aunt lives with him now and so he's taken care of in the event of these unfortunate yet expected ailments.

I called Muriah next, to calm down a little before calling Papa, but it didn't work for the calming down. As I talked about Papa - the fruit-stand, the Krispy-Kreme, the Golden Gallon, the stories, the home-movies, my graduation party - I passed myself off as being silly for feeling so distressed, but I couldn't stop aching inside. To be a little girl on his carport with the ballgame on the radio and his trademark climbing roses on the chain-link fence. Miller Lite in one hand and me in the other.

The more I talked to Muriah about why I should collect myself, the colder it felt outside where I was standing. The farther I felt from home. Suddenly the thousand miles between me and my family expanded like a sponge in water. No one near me could comfort me. I could tell family stories all day and these people in New York would still not understand my need for familial comfort RIGHT NOW. The more I tried to calm down, the more I resented my need to become calm, and I got really scared.

Scared that I was going to miss something. That tragedy could come to my family and I'd be off in Michaela-land and nowhere near to help. Like when I was in England and Nathanael over-dosed.

Also, I was angry that I was worrying my sister by crying over the phone, and I worried myself because I never fucking cry. I just wanted to be home, where it's okay to cry.

Why have my dreams taken me so far away from home?

Muriah of course was exactly who I needed to be on the phone with while I cried. She didn't become anxious. She was simply my big sister.

Sometimes I get so used to being the big sister I forget that I have one built-in, and she's good at it.

Anyway, the end of the story is that I called Papa, and spent a total of 60 seconds on the phone with him. I told him I love him and think of him often, and he told me he loves me.

I'm okay now.

Some days I hate all the people who read this journal. All the people who I didn't know before starting it. I hate them all because I don't love them. And yet I paint a picture for them; for some reason I take into consideration what they might think. They take stock and make comments and sometimes I actually worry about what they think.

The only thing I keep from them is the stories of my family. I don't talk about phone calls or situations with them. There are some things so sacred that not even the invisible darkness that DIARY LAND represents is worthy to become privy to them.

The ears tuned in to me, though, are not ears of people who love me. Who know my past. Who have seen my evolution. Who know my history. The ears tuned-in to me should not be here at the exclusion of the people who took bullets to stand in my inner circle.

I hate them for not being my family.

I hate that my family is not them.

I'm already tired of being alone and there's at least five more years to look forward to; I guess it's time to begin fashioning an alter-ego.

I understand without reading why scanzilla stopped writing day-to-day.

The only reason why I'm not going to stop is becuase this is my journal, and no one can hurt me with any of this knowledge, so it's okay that it's out there.

I'm just mad that it's all of you who read instead of my loved ones.

I'm sorry.

Every time I see a thetruth.com commercial I want to go smoke a cigarette. Stay tuned to see how I relate to the "Smoke-Free NYC".