fuckercunt. OPB just interrupted performance today to broadcast the president's speech on terror. i call that terrorism, shit. chopin kills JWB.
all of my stuff is scattered around the house in piles. it is quite a task to exctract myself from the house that has been my home for two months, considering that i tend to blur the lines of 'my space' and the rest of the house with ease. postcards on the fridge. mine. shells on the mantlepiece. mine. cds. books. clothes. shoes. money. magazines. photographs. it will all be delt with today, and then tomorrow i will leave. G+G Gardner are coming to collect me for another, final familial romp. i wonder how deep into the complexities of their 50 year old marriage i will be thrust. having just emerged from a weekend spent travelling from relative to relative in eastern oregon, i feel as if i've come close to understanding the many emotional deformities that plague my mother's side of the family.
my grandparents live on a large ranch overlooking a valley near the town of la grande. their palacial house overlooking a beautiful valley reminds me of an abandoned wasp's nest. one of those huge paper orbs that hangs in the trees as a testament to the lives that created it. JoAnne and Gary live alone in their vacant nest, saturated with a poisoned history and lolling about in the gloomy present.
the evening of our arrival, we eat dinner in a paralytic silence, words eaked out between bites of buffalo meat ribs and legumes. grandma's mind diteriorates and she forgets what is on the stove. my aunt and i step in and finish dinner preparations. grandpa spews rhetoric concerning the last book he read, grandma carves at his ego mercilessly. i listen to strained conversation about cousins that i never see, hear of aunts and uncles who exist somewhere along the coast- one a millionaire construction contractor with a son in the military and a hummer in the driveway.
after i was able to break away for sleep, i rested in what was my mother's bedroom. the bed is perched on wheels, it moved noisily over the wooden floor as i adjusted pillows and blankets. i imagined mom having the same irritating problem throughout all of those years living in that tiny room. i lost consciousness. i dreamed the house rising on the western side, and my bed careening down the length of the room, through the door and out into the hallway. family photo wall covered with frames, every face familiar in their way, the price children and their children hanging smiles through the glass, grandma by her piano in a seventies dress, grandpa feeding a cucumber to a cow. smiles. smiles. and down the staircase my bed rolls, i crash into the grand piano and bach fugues fly out of the bench, i hear them blend pointlessly with a hymn that my grandpa sang in church, everything losing effect and momentum- dripping off the canvas of my dream like heavy oil paint in from a brush. back in the kitchen the next morning, grandma is peeling peaches to be frozen. insults fly across the room towards my silent grandpa sleeping in a seated position in front of the t.v. where agassi wins a tennis match even though he's too old for professional sports. there are way too many metaphors going on at once, so i slip outside and notice that the pool is overflowing; the water turned on to fill it has been running all night long. i turn off the tap and walk out on to the painted deck, looking out over the valley. what a view. i am tanned and shorted, wearing powder blue shorts and deck shoes. a black tank top. my hair is bobbed. i feel like a teenager. i swear i've grown an inch taller this summer.