I’ve Been Having Trouble Sleeping
March 7, 2011 § Leave a comment
When you think of home, what do you think of? he’d asked. Wind chimes. I have scads of the damn things. Some of them I don’t even like the look of, like that one with all of the lighthouses. It looks like something a wide ankled divorcee who hopes to own her own salon some day would purchase and set on the back patio of her shitty little thin walled condo. But it sounds like a couple of doves being released on the wedding of royalty.
It’s hell at 3:30 when you’re pondering how far you’ve come from Midwest mosquitos and the subtle safety of being pissed off about socks in the hallway. The city is so fucking beautiful I want to buy it a drink and hope it fucks me, but sometimes I think I’m doing this shit all wrong, being this far from people who mount ducks on their living room walls un-ironically.
Yet I can see my house from here. If I squint hard I can see myself laying on my front porch, those wind chimes bleating out that winter is coming in. Even on the okay nights after a barbecue I’d lay out there on the paint peeled steps, drunk off my ass and never wondering if I’d leave, just wondering if I’d finally be able to fucking kill myself that night. I never bought those wind chimes myself. They were always gifts; the only thing people could think of to give me once I told them I had enough freesia bubble bath.
If I squint hard with my ears I can hear all the sighs, the loud mouthed cop called fights. Out here, there’s none of that. Instead I go for a jog through Van Nuys and listen to my neighbors who grew up here, sounds of sirens and ghetto bird helicopters, and these idiots are daydreaming of simple. I text a friend. “Remember that time when I got out of jail…”
“Sometimes,” he texts back, “it’s hard to think you were ever even here.”
Sometimes it’s harder to think that I was like an ant in a cup of poisoned soda, clawing my way out. Tomorrow I think I might head into Hollywood proper and find myself some chimes. Right now, though, I suppose there isn’t much harm into crawling into bed with a bottle, some Netflix, and a sense that I’m better than all of it. No fucking wind chime is going to top that.