An empty glass of water
Self-consciouss first entry blues have passed, me-thinks. A
healthy dose of Latin relaxed my mind, but spoiled the
muscles in my back, wracking them into the tension of the
last three days, which, until now, they have successfully
avoided. The ache of the plane seats, the hotel beds, the
has finally drawn itself up into a physical manifestation.
It's beautiful, in some masochistic way, and it's putting
me in a better mood.
The service was beautiful, it really was. It was
inappropriate and yet relieving that the Rabbi had a sense
of humor. The room was filled with what must have been most
of the Jewish community of Birmingham, all ready to be
astonished and moved by what works would come out of the
slim girl. She hemmed and halted and laughed awkwardly, but
the awareness of the life flowing through her pulled a tear
out of the driest of eyes. I loved that she said her thank-
yous first. And I loved the grace with which this family
which seems so familiar to me, and yet so distant, gathered
around the tragedy child and saw beyond the "pain in the
ass" she was, and still could be. When I saw Debra, she
started crying. I know that she was ready to cry. I can't
imagine what Steph looked like in a coma, but it must have
been awful. It was awful enough to have her falter before
saying my name, and it's awful now to hear her laugh and
her stammering words and wonder where the Steph I used to
know has dissappeared to. If she had died, after being hit
by a car, it would have affected me, but it would have been
distant. This, however, is much more real, and in a way,
much more painful. She reminds me of life, that there is
life and worth and reality and a world outside these gates
that matter. It works against my selfishness, and I regret
that the service was sandwiched in between the awful social
task of facing up to those with whom I no longer have
anything in common.
I want to sleep forever, to catch up, finally, on my sleep,
but at the same time I am irrevocably awake.
Homecoming is Saturday. Can't tell if I want to go. I don't
like dressing up, and I don't really like dancing, so what,
in the end, is the point? How do people come about school
spirit? Where can I get some?
Do I really want any?
Even my mother thinks I'm an odd duck...I wonder sometimes
if she likes me. I know that she loves me, but given the
choice, would she become friends with me? Or wonder cattily
behind my back why I act the way I do. It's just a thought.
Thoughts mean little to nothing, depending on what you do
We've established once again that my life is boring and I
have no emotion but frustration. Hurrah. I'm missing