not sleeping anymore

1/01/05

My sister's new house has a winding driveway. The cars are twisted around like garland on a Christmas tree. It's the first party she's ever thrown. Aunt Helene, my father's first wife's sister in-law, greets me at the door. She looks me up and down and asks, "Which one is she from?" The disgust on her face is thick like her thighs. She rubs her elbows with her fingers when she crosses her arms, "What about that one," pointing to my younger sister, "is she real?"

So this is the new year.

My father, entering the house as if perfectly timed to answer, is already mid-way through a story. He's telling the one about the time I was four and figured out the truth about Santa. I proclaimed, "Daddy, there's no such thing as Santa," as I compared remnants of Santa's wrapping paper and our own. "Well, Santa has to get his wrapping paper from somewhere, he probably got it at the same place mom did" "But, look..." I took the two pieces, each still had its tag fastened to the front, "They match!" And the two pieces, perfectly aligned, were presumably cut one after the other in the same wrapping session. "Well, shit" he pauses for effect, "the little bitch was so smart."

And I don't feel any different.

The conversations multiply and divide and bounce back off the marble floors and 20 foot ceilings. I'm caught between three women: my sister, her friend, and my aunt in a discussion about plastic surgery. My sister is about to go in for another lipo, her friend has abruptly stopped all her psychiatric medications, my aunt thinks my sister needs a lobotomy. The soda is warm. There's one drunk guest, but she doesn't speak english when she toasts.

The clanking of cyrstal.

Another sister of mine breaks the chaos and organizes family portraits featuring members of the family, illegitimate and all. Our smiles are real. I'm the one on the far right in the pink shirt, I'm standing in front of my 9 year old sister who is sitting on the floor in her black leather mini skirt. My dad's mouth is in mid-sentence.

Explosions off in the distance.

I've never met uncle Albert. Not surprisingly he's not actually my uncle. I talk to him nonetheless. He drove down from Long Island. Long drive, they stopped once along the way, but still a long drive. It's a long conversation too, considering I know nothing about the guy. I asked my mom later. "Oh, uncle Albert," she recalls, "when he found out I was pregnant with you he called our house and threatened to cut you out of my stomach."

So this is the new year.

The airlines are calling. They found more baggage.

And I have no resolutions.

I leave the party with goodbyes to a select few. My younger sister and brother not among them. My father somehow makes it in.

For self assigned penance

My christmas present is substantial enough to flush my face with guilt. I can't help but wonder if it was as substantial as Mary's (his Wal-mart friend).

For problems with easy solutions

I glance at my watch. It's 2:00 pm in California.

I wish the world was flat like the old days

The drive home is long enough for me to realize that no drive will ever be long enough. I moved thousands of miles away to discover I'm the problem. The failure is in my own heart. My arteries are clogged and twisted, stretched and bent, tired and useless. The muscle tissue is weak. There's a small section still in use, but it's mostly preoccupied, it beats for its own life.

Then i could travel just by folding a map

I was afraid that I move through life leaving no impression. The cliche isn't true, making a difference in one life isn't enough. I was so intent on feeling real. I never stopped to contemplate the possibility that he would be worse for knowing me.

No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways

The streets are stretched.

There'd be no distance that can hold us back

It takes longer to get home,

There'd be no distance that could hold us back

when I reach it alone.

So this is the new year

posted by d @ 2:49 PM