Where is my Face?
June 16, 2008
Where have I gone? Where did my life go? Where is my face? I used to be happy. I used to be a singer. I used to get free meals and champagne. I was invited to parties and openings and closings. I was a size 4. I had cash in my pockets and bureau drawers. I wore pretty dresses. I performed with fabulous jazz musicians who wrote out charts in my key. I had a cheap apartment near a big-city library and big-city theaters and big-city art galleries. I had friends. I had plans. I had goals. I had hope. NOW, I am in Vermont. I have no hope, no plans, no goals. My friends are cows although I know one chicken. I have no gigs. I have no musicians. I have no new charts. I wear shit-kicker boots and flannel shirts. I have no money, no social life, no means of escape. I have no gas in my car. I have a serious clinical depression that medication can’t relieve. I have confusion, nightmares, dizzy spells, hang-overs. I have fears, dread, anxiety, pimples. I have no reason to complain. I have a house. I have a daughter. I have a dog. I have my health. I have friends. I have talent. I have lots of books. I have fresh strawberries. I have a garden. I have a dentist. Someday, I may get my mind back. Then I can find some gas to put in my car and I can drive the car somewhere else. I can move into a cheap apartment near a park in a city and sing again in a little club with jazz musicians. I can wear a pretty dress. I can go to a museum. I could have money in my pocket. I could maybe go to graduate school and become a nurse’s assistant or real estate agent. I could attend yoga classes. I could go out to dinner, or lunch. I could walk down a sidewalk. I could rehearse. I could make a CD. I could write about something besides cows. I could talk to someone besides a cow, or the chicken. I could find my face again.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.