one thousand cups of coffee. the dirt is deep in my eyebrows. have i been foolish? the array of diners, motels and bad directions makes me feel more misplaced within such a vast land, filled with so many people. eating from the buffet table where steam is rising from the fried chicken breasts. people pick at them with tongs. i'm no better. what a large world to wander around alone in. wanting to turn to my right and say something to someone. about nothing, the way one speaks to a loved one, someone very close to talk with, about nothing. whatever comes to mind, spouting random thoughts and observations. not bullshit, it's not bullshit. it's the most warm and loving dialogue. simple and open. to be so close to someone else's mind that your mouth harbors no hesitation. simply saying, and knowing everything is accepted. every word considered in a simple way, a gentle manner. even when they aren't cohesive. cognitivity need not exist between true and trusted friendship. that is to say, it is irrelevant due to deeper understanding. here there are only strangers. delightful strangers coming and going, smiling and giving me coffee. but strangers are like masturbation, as sex is to actual friendship. the brain requires social interaction, and these strangers don't provide complete gratification. but i love to watch them eat.

i had just rented an exorbitant amount of film from the local Blockbuster. the change handed back was enough for a pack of smokes, so i plodded through the ridiculous heat, contemplating my addictions, fifty paces to Kmart. while waiting in line to make my purchase, i stared at the woman in front of me. she was older, chewing gum forcefully, herself buying cigarettes. the skin around her mouth failed to efficiently cling to the bone any longer, making her appear much older than she probably was. from behind she could pass for thirty. i watched the folds surrounding her furiously moving mouth, hoping i could quit smoking before this happened to me. the cigarettes were $3.84. camel filters. full flavour.

as i headed for the door, lost in thoughts about nothing particular, i glanced quickly at some children sized bikes on clearance. they were schwinns. pink with white tires. my lack of thought was interrupted by a voice to my left saying, "fun fun!" i quickly turned to address it, saying "huh?" and witnessed an older man, red-headed and freckled, with a red, lemon-sized goiter on his neck. i only looked at him for a moment, as i was confused, and slightly taken aback by his deformation. he said again, "fun-fun!" i had no idea what he was talking about. "yeah." was the only response i could muster. was he speaking of the cigarettes? trying to shame me for being a smoker? maybe he was once a smoker, then he got the goiter, so the comment was the jealous revenge of an embittered, sickly man. was he talking about the bikes? reminiscing over the days of his childhood, when he too owned a pink bike with white tires? was he even talking to me? as i walked through the field of asphalt i contemplated this heavily. was it a sign? an evil prophecy or sarcastic prediction. the vague flashbulb memory of his potato shaped head consumed my thoughts, as i crossed the busy southern street towards home.

and every night before bed, thoughts come back, like a bad dream i had once,
or a really pathetic story i hated so much.


fuck you for all false starts. your backwashed ideas
supposing going nowhere neverletting
while sitting up in dirty rooms drinking expirations
cheap beer
just barely chokingdown for no good reason
i hope you see the joke you're making
the self squabbling moments when you say
i'm just a person justaperson for that and
for that reason
the world is here
there have been heavier hands
brows have been furtherfurrowedfucking shit
how can you call yourself
and i don't care just how you do
at all when you wake up alone and the day is yet another
but seemingly so new

you ruin

again comes the millionth chance
to just
andtojust nothing ever happens
the days wear on and you wear yourself thin in broken shoes
i wonder what you're sorry for i wonder why everynight
when you go home
now
when you've completed so-called productive breathing patterns
for the day
why you do
not how
you sorry
piece of shit
i'm sorry
for the both of us
you are just aperson faking it for real
and just
doing is for nothing
at all
in the whole
you're going nowhere.

Jackson Town.

waiting for the gunshots. keep the money in the icebox. my two companions are woody guthrie and herman hesse. one is made of plastic, the other, paper. before i left again, i was sent a french press and a bag of coffee from a local roaster. using both now, i realize the water wasn't hot enough, but there is a delightful grainy taste that does not upset. the deluxe inn. actually "the" doesn't even exists in the title, simply "deluxe inn." thirty-five dollars. and if i return the key, i get five back. the room smells of rot. stale cigarettes and the cheap cleaners used to try and make it smell like cleanliness. coat ugly aromas. why do people assume clean has a smell. and why is there an association between chemicals with this nonexistent fragrance called cleanliness. the notion of how many people have fucked in this bed makes one neurotic. question secrecy and infidelity. rotten old hairy genitals, with matching bodies excreting personal odors. sweat.

i've made a picnic for myself on the hotel floor. using the bathroom towels, which need never be used against clean skin. the soap smells like old plastic ladies, and i feel sorry for the hands that will use it. a chair has been placed in front of the door and the couch has been moved in front of the window. overlooked by a large mirror, the desk is arranged against a wall, ideal for my needs, but its placement adjacent to the door and window makes me uneasy. so i've set myself up at a range where, if there were shots fired in my direction, i'd be too low to the ground for a direct hit, hence the picnic. the bathroom was considered, as it is farthest from the entrance, but after close examination, its condition is wary. i can almost see the bacteria multiplying. and it had no outlet.

after lying on the bed for a time, it became disturbingly clear that the five foot by three foot horizontal mirror at bed level was not placed just so for the purpose of people looking into it with their clothes on. and left of center on the mirror itself is a large smudge of sorts. i stared at it for some time wondering what part of who's body had created this smear. and why were they here and with whom, never thinking such thoughts are none of my business. maybe because they are only thoughts. so the money's in the icebox, wrapped in a floral handkerchief. the air conditioner is on. and night is decidedly a strange and funny time. nine miles from jackson there was an angry black man yelling at a vending machine. the phone rang and a man with a thick middle eastern accent asked if a wake up call was desired. ten thirty a.m. are you sure? is everything okay? everything is just fine.

a converted house coffee shop. outside, on the porch, tiny fire ants deconstruct a piece of food. the air has thinned, and a fresh wind blows the giant oak. smoking a cigarette, my body wishes to succumb to this deep exhaustion. and the sadness subtly speaking behind it. all the feelings of loneliness and grief that come simply from being alive. i need a newer water.

somebody's in here.
scratch all those plans.
onto phase two
onto phrase infinity
again
everything is changing now
defiantly.

"
i had opinions
that didn't matter
i had a brain
that felt like pancake batter
i got a backyard
with nothing in it
except stick a dog and a box with somethin in it.
"

what now so much
from time to time i still stumbled around
like a drunk looking for what i have
intentionally misplaced

so i don't find it
but its absence makes its presence
that much more obvious
knowing if i found it
i would forget that it was mine

stop distracting me

now the actual drunk calls
i say okay why not
and i do
make
opening eyes wide
with an affectionate disdain
stare down great loneliness
scowling
sitting back and grinningsayingfine

and how vast because of it
the sense of solitary life so powerful
so quiet
the sky is mine
alone

there is some stuff i saw, while in mississippi. the first picture is, without a doubt, the best. i often wonder what crazy things people do when they're alone. or with someone very close to them. just weird stuff, like talking in funny voices, or making ugly faces. just being completely stupid. things they wouldn't ever do in front of other people. these are usually my favourite moments i share with lauren. just being stupid. instances where she is the only person in the world who i know won't judge me. and when she says, "you're crazy." i know she means it. in the best of ways...

(this is reminding me of "schizopolis," steven soderbergh, a movie that must be seen.)

anyway. i will be gone soon.

i don't know these people..

{new orleans.}



















{the washboard incident.}



















{lewis the pirate.}



















{outside the cowboy gay bar.}



















{something about secret agents.}



















{i smoke too much.}



















{river phoenix.}



















{kiddo.}



















{lovely lauren.}



















{?}

"well, megan, i hate to have to tell you this, but we need you moved out by sunday." i wasn't shocked. it seemed like an inevitability. i told him i understood. pointlessly explained the details of my life that had slightly led up to this point. he said he was sorry, and good luck. i stood to go, and for whatever reason, simply started bawling. i sobbed some words to him about how i was very grateful, and i knew they were busy people, kind people, "for christ's sake, you let me come to your easter lunch. i'm sorry. goodbye." i walked down to the piece of shit trailer i so temporarily called home, to call my mother. the church was hiring a new staff member, which meant i got the boot. that and i hadn't been volunteering as much as they would have liked. my mother didn't answer. just as i was attempting to phone her again, knowing she usually doesn't answer because she can't find her phone, lauren step inside. to console me. i tell her the story.

somehow my confused sorrow turned into the two of us trying on my new sundresses, taking pictures of ourselves, and me making some short film upsidedown on the bed, while she brushed her teeth. we discussed how "diarrhea" might not be such a disgusting word, were it not for the meaning. but the word itself is almost pretty, and very fun to say.

so it's homeless again. and i don't even care. i'll be gone in a week. i don't even bother about my job anymore. for the most part i sit in the back room drinking either coffee or chocolate milk, smoking and reading david sedaris, while chaos reighns in the restaurant. lately his stories have kept me alive. or at least in better spirits. the portion of my job i do care about, in the sense that it is the only part of my job that impacts me, is the constant feeling of objectification. when a man slaps your ass to make some sort of masculine point i wish with all my little girl heart that i could vomit on demand. because i would puke in his face. this happened to me the other night, after i spent a half an hour telling this man i didn't want to give him my number, i didn't want to go out with him, i didn't want to have sex with him, and i am not "freaky" like he so unfoundedly assumed, after all i had done was give him coffee. somehow, through this fifteen second act, his judgment call was accurate, not to mention his super power brains could tell i have "a really nice personality." he proceeded to say, "i like the way your built. you look sporty. and that ass, you could make a black man so happy." call me crazy, but do people actually get persuaded by such statements? do people like that? because when someone walks up to me for the first time and informs me they think i have a nice booty, and would like for me to have sex with them, my initial instinct is to vomit. actually, i would probably just raise a confused eyebrow, which, my luck, would be completely misconstrued. what does "freaky" even mean.


upon leaving work i found a kitty. it wouldn't come to me when i called, but we meowed back and forth for about twenty minutes. i left it some bacon i stole from someone's plate in the backroom. i think they were still eating it, but obviously, there were more important kitties at hand.

has this life become so boring? i feel it is when i talk on the phone. when i tell my stories. i am constantly questioning my own pettiness. someone told me that i would stop feeling so anxious and depressed if i just recognized that life isn't constantly exciting. but i find that advice hard to grasp. for as boring as my days are i still find so much pleasure in them. maybe not minute after minute, but there are always interesting things happening. always strange social interactions and instances. i find myself forever in this state of quiet fascination witht the world around me. why it acts in such a way. why people say the things they do, or insert strange antecdotes into conversations with complete strangers. everyone is searching for common ground. everyone strives to be different. or they don't. either way it intrigues me. and i feel like a satillite. just orbiting, unnoticed. most days i feel completely invisible. except for on the rare occasions where someone asks me if i'm gay because i have short hair. i've begun to tell them, "yes, but only when my hair is short. when it's long i'm completely straight. because i base my entire sexual orientation on the length of my hair. the other day i was walking to the movies and some teenage boys in a beat up buick rolled down their window to call me a faggot. i turned to look at them, and upon doing this they realized i was a girl, laughed and drove away. the world is funny to me. and i for the life of me, i couldn't understand why they would even bother to make any remark at all. as though it were some concern of theirs. like they had to defend their masculinity by demeaning my own. assuming i were gay man. which i would like to add, i completely felt like the other day. i'm sure that statement doesn't make any sense, and i accept that. honestly i have no explanation for the feelings i had. and even if i were to try an elaborate, it wouldn't make any sense. sometimes i wonder where my head is. and being alone so much probably doesn't ground me any. i've become a complete hypochondriac. having no one to tell me i'm not dying. what if i have a brain tumor the size of a tennis ball, and that's what's causing all these strange thoughts. what if i've had it since infancey. i miss my doctor. they tell me it's just the bad air down here, but i'm beginnging to think there is a blood clot in the back of my head. all this to say, mississippi is a terrible place. containing lots and lots of sad people i contend with on a daily basis. they tell me their stories in tears. and i have lost my sense of apathy. i trust no one. i let no one in.