Had some time today, the Dresden Dolls show at Amoeba was cancelled because their tour bus broke down in Oregon. Wished I would have known that before I got all dressed up and went there. Luckily there is a form of communication that still works for me.
There was a sign on the door.
Primitive, yet effective, in an after the fact kinda way.
They better be here tomorrow, or I’m going to have about 25 floor performers pretty unhappy – I’ve been organizing them for this show. We’ve got a girl coming up from L.A. who eats light bulbs, human statues, Kitten on the Keys will be serenading the guests standing in line with her accordion, A Dark Pep Squad, The Vau de Vire society will have a presence, a cello and violin – I may just stick them in the bathroom for kicks for part of the night – and of course, a Klown Quite a challenge getting them all together with such little internet access and no phone, but I did it. . It will be beautiful.
I started copying old journals to the computer, starting on the first page of the one that leads up to the adoption shit.
April 24th, 1995
Meth was my thing then – what else to do in a city where last call is at 12:30 besides stay up for days on end? Strange how it was so prevalent – though not really surprising. Everyone finds a way to escape their hell, somehow. Usually the closest thing available. That was always my choice.
It was incredibly strange typing it out on the computer, saying goodbye to the way I wrote then at times, going over letters over and over, words shrinking and growing with the intensity of the feeling, every last bit of what I had going down on the paper, trying desperately to get it out.
It took me back. I haven’t seen these in years, and now I’m reading them again.
Now I’m writing them again.
It’s difficult to keep it in the past, to remain detached. I’m not those people anymore. I’ve grown. I’ve learned.
Still, it’s haunting reading it, the little bit that I did, and seeing the circles. Seeing the need for someone else to bring me to me. To help me feel something. Anything. The more the better. Something to help fill the absence that the drugs created.
I’ve buried myself
deep inside again
so easy anymore
not to care when it isn’t
turn my back
close my eyes to the pain
need me to stay
but can’t find a way to tell me.
Screaming so loud on the inside
praying that soon someone will be able to hear
the cries for help
of the tiny little holes
in her veins.
So just poke more holes
SLAM that dull needle home,
again and again and again and again and again and
don’t stop and don’t miss girl make sure you see the blood first because it just doesn’t have the same rush when it hits the skin and it just doesn’t have that feel you want so fucking bad so you can tell me (after I begged you not to even bring it up EVER because you KNOW how it makes me want) so you can tell me at your first fucking opportunity “I got high in the bathroom Casey” and all I can see all I want to do is SLAM that fucking needle in my arm over and over again and yeah that’s right I want to fuck the SHIT out of my vein with that needle just slam! slam! slam! until it breaks blood everywhere and my god look at my arm there’s nothing left blood and a broken rig but that’s fine I can get another rig and I like the taste of blood and I can always find another place to put a hole because if I haven’t done it to myself I’ve done it for someone else and now what the fuck were you doing Pam what the FUCK were you thinking when you told me when you kept shooting up when you kept telling me when you shot up Pam is it because you want me to join you? Is that what it is you cunt you wanted to bring me down to your misery???! You wanted to fuck MY life too because there was nothing left of yours to fuck and you weren’t quite done yet IS THAT IT??!
If it is, sorry to disappoint you.
If it is, sorry that I can’t kill you myself, but it seems like you are doing a fine job on your own.
Keep it up.
It will come crashing down on you.
It’s already starting.
Can’t you feel it’s weight?
So continue to dig, Pam, deeper and deeper your grave
and I know you’ve been there before
why can’t you remember how hard it can be to get back
if you even can.
Why can’t you see you’re losing so much more
You’re losing you.
When you need help
a hand out of your hole
you can call me.
It’s enlightening to finally see
how little you care about
how much I do
how much I used to about you.
How hard I tried
to find in you
what you have tucked so deep inside
and covered so completely with your indifference
that I don’t think even you can see
the life I used to see in you.
Screams of pain drowned out
by your own ignorance.
At one point, you were alive with it. Now,
you just exist.
But perhaps, it is only what I wanted to see
and maybe you never were there
and maybe, you just know how to put on
a real good act
these pages are being wasted
on an object
on an it.
I’d like to think I’m wrong.
I’ve seen you cry.
I know that you used to feel
I know that you used to care.
Is it me?
I’ve detached. It’s so easy for me.
Don’t pretend that you care one minute
and the next, prove that you don’t.
over done finished spent oh so spent away decease decay desist destroy erase you
I am done.
I wrote differently then.
I miss the way I wrote.
I don’t miss the me from back then.
I can get the writing back.