Daniela Scrima’s blog

she fucked like a phrenologist

nobody@vox.com(Daniela Scrima) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 21:43:56 -0700

Can't it just come down to phrenology, cant you just leave it up to that baby? Nothing else has worked. We've tried it all and look at us, we keep failing. I say happy birthday. Someone uses my mouth, but they are just a stranger. I'll use both my hands, all ten fingers. If you need me to, I'll take my shirt off, or maybe I'll just talk a lot. You can hear how my voice sounds and watch it come out of my mouth, you can think about my lungs. You'll be close enough to touch them if you want to-not my breasts of course, but my lungs, my breathing. I'll have to do this baby, I'm sorry, I wish we could do it some other way- but we have used them all up. I wish we could keep using government phone services, or writing letters we'll never send, I wish we could keep on with these words we use or that you'd count your dollars and take me to the movies or I could write you an e-mail, but I know damn well- Christ baby, you know damn well too, that we don't have those options anymore. We have run out of options so now all we have left is our bones. And babe, I know we have those. Those are facts. Bones, blood, skin, cells. We have to know that, don't we baby? We could sit here again reciting each others life history, but baby, we're so sick of it. You know this is all we have left. So shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up and let me find the answers. Shut the fuck up and I'll finally figure it out, Ill figure it out by touching your skull.

Read and post comments | Send to a friend

9: I'm in love with a dream I had as a kid, I wait up the street until you show

nobody@vox.com(Daniela Scrima) — Wed, 14 May 2008 22:11:02 -0700

February 28th 2004

I cant sleep through the night, because I'm scared of the dark. I think too much, and the darkness scares the hell out of me. I have a nightlite, and terrible sleeping habits. I wake up screaming. Or I don't wake up at all. I listen to music that my mother did when she was my age. I listen to it like it still has a purpose, like it's brand new, because for me, it is. I read books over and over. And I smile a lot on the outside. I try as hard as I can not to drown, but sometimes the waves are inevitable. I lived in Florida for ten years, so don't expect me to get excited over sunshine. No matter how together I get it, I will always stand to be corrected. Someone will always point out that I put the, comma in the wrong place, they wont even read the sentence. They will look into my eyes and right past me. They will tear apart my face. And I will make part of this up. I will sleep or stop or stop or sleep. I will be your personal Jesus. You can light me on fire, and I'll love it. I will find you in deserted rooms and crowded hallways, you will fill my brain. I will want more. But I will never be enough for you. This is all you need to remember, because I'm beginning to forget. I meet a girl in college who never has nightmares. She becomes my best friend almost instantly, and I cant ever get past the fact that she has gone her whole life without ever having a nightmare. She is an amazing person, I adore her completely. And she has never had a nightmare. I end up relating back to it everytime we speak. It's like when you're talking to someone whose parents both died in a car accident when they were ten, you have conversations and you talk like everything is alright, but you always go back to that thought. You're talking to them about chocolate milk, and you're thinking about their parents dying in a car. You want to ask questions like "how is it like to feel like that?" or you want to treat them like they are extra fragile. Fragile in the same way that someone who is in a wheel chair gets looks from everyone that are trying to point out "I will treat you as an equal, although you're in a wheel chair". You try and be so politely correct, like it's not obvious that it's the only thing on your mind. It's how you sit there and think, "I don't know what is worse, that people like me arent good enough for people like you, or that people like me care, because it's the people like me that should know better, and instead I watch us run after you". Realizing something is always a step, in rehab and therapy they tell you all this stuff about how denial is awful and honesty is always the best policy. But the only thing worse than denial is realization; you can realize and address the problem-but that does not mean you will do anything about it.

I'm in love with a dream I had as a kid I wait up the street until you show; That dream it came true- but you never do No, you never did; As far as I know

So I stay up in bed feeling jealous about a lack of some sort of nightmare. I've just done a bunch of coke, so I cant really feel my nose. I keep placing my fingers on it, and getting nowhere. It's Ohio, and its February, where did I plan on going anyway? I want to hug someone, or punch someone or preferably find the cure for cancer, at a truck stop. But the year is two-thousand &four, and that just sounds ridiculous. It sounds like saying "2056", it sounds like the future, it sounds like we should be metal suits and have no emotions. Maybe that is all we have, but I'm sure missing out on the present. So when the year sounds like the future, you end up taking what you can get. Besides, you're right handed and you always have nightmares. The boy sitting next to you, he probably just feels obligated. The people you want dont want you back, and the people you used to say you'd die for are now just better off dead. It's like when I realized that we went from years of boys trying to get down our pants, to years of boys that just didn't know how. You've been waking up screaming since you first made it out of the womb, like you came off the assembly line flat out fucked. You came off the assembly line flat out fucked and your parents should have probably taken you back and got their refund. If theyre lucky, there was probably some good deal going on, or something with a 100% guarantee. Your parents who are just made for each other, they wouldnt have bothered to keep the receipt, yet they will still spend eighty hours arguing over who threw it away. They still make the time to argue about whose fault it is that they cant return the baby, they come to the realization that this has somehow become their responsibility. Well, shit. So you sit down over breakfast with your nightmareless best friend. We're sitting at Denny's and I'm staring at my hashed browns. We're eating, and we're laughing. We eat pancakes in a matter that says "simple really is simple" and orange juice ends up represneting salvation. I'm thinking about how eating strips of bacon will probably add a few years to my time spent in purgatory, and how the roman catholic church will probably not want anything to do with me, because me, well i've put things up my nose, and hands have gone down my shirt far too many times; I've done things that no one talks about on nights when everything is going really well. I've done things we'd like to ignore. We regret telling our mothers. These are the times when I'm wanting The Blessed Virgin Miss Mary to slap the baby Jesus, to shake his little body for spitting up on her pure blue gown. Maybe if she did, I'd feel so much better for being me. And I eat my pancakes and think "the only reason I'm thinking like this is because I've had so many nightmares" She's never had nightmares so how could she understand that the eggs on my plate are making the baby jesus cry. And Goddamnit! It's not fair. I wake up and I cant tell you where I am.Where the fuck is everyone? Where did everybody go? When my mind is racing like I'm fifteen and my hands are moving like i'm sixty five. When I'm laying on my stomach, like a beached whale who is ready to die. She lays on the beach covered in the blubber which is just her, and she is accepting that there is no air or water left, she went too close to shore. She comes to terms with dying, but even when the world darkens and fades and being coherent escapes her, she is ready to die if she must, but is still praying for one last wave. And I just cant remember where anyone has gone. Cant remember what zip code existance is currently belonging to. It's a feeling of vertigo, a constant falling. Simply put, I feel like my equillibrium shot itself in the face. And I'm just left reading the suicide note. Like a mother who walks into her kitchen and doesnt know where she went wrong, it takes her a moment to realize that the red stuff all over the counter and the pink chunks all over the floor belong to her son, whose body is sitting in the chair, and whose shotgun has fallen across the kitchen table. She'll never be able to admit that the first thought that crossed her mind was "Oh my, what a mess", because instantly she starts screaming out "oh my baby, oh my baby'. And she falls like she's falling, has no idea where she went wrong. Unless you are this mother in that kitchen, you don't know what it's like to wake up in my bed. And I wake up not knowing where I am. Not remembering that you cant start paragraphs with "and" or even with "so". Glued to my sheets I can not tell you what state I'm in or whose bed I'm in. I cant tell because instead of opening my eyes, I just shove my face further into the pillow. Like it's love. I wake up gasping for air because when my eyes were closed and I was deep in some sort of NREM sleep, I had a nightmare that I was drowning while everyone watched. Or I wake up holding on to the sore spots in my stomach where lions just ripped my stomach to shreds. Maybe it was the dream where my mother stabs me over and over again, because I cant get out of bed. Because I was the greatest mistake she has made to date. And I wake-up, but cant open my eyes. I'm paralized. I'm even more tired than I was before I went to sleep, if that's even possible. I cant move, because I cant remember where the fuck I am. I toss from side to side and cant tell you if I'm in Florida or not. I try and feel if there is some warmth hitting my face from an open window, I try and feel if I'm spread across my California king size mattress, like I'm dying and it's the west coast. I feel like my hip bones should be sticking out more, and my hair should be sticking up less. But I'm probably not in Florida. It's the east coast, and everyone knows where you live; they know you at the mall &and the market-they know you on the beach and at the bars. You live in one of the most overpopulated counties in the country, you live in a place where people vacation or die, a place that is completely transient, where everyone leaves and comes and leaves again, and you are still not anonymous. You don't watch television, and maybe you should. Maybe you should take your iron, and stop taking sleeping pills. The state is full of strangers and it still ends up that everybody knows your na-me and they are always glad you ca-me. But, you're probably not occupying the sunshine state. The two of you have parted ways like someone who wears those horrid patches so they can quit smoking. I don't know who wears the patch and who is the person, you or Florida. I don't know where I am, and when I say "You" I always mean "Me". The sunshine state just turned cloudy, and you arent even there for the execution. You were there to watch them steal the election, but I think you slept through the other parts. Winding up somewhere up north, like it could somehow save you. Maybe I'm at grandma's house, sleeping in the blue room, the walls lined with Virgin Mary's and me tossing and turning like it's too terrible. Everything smells like death and catholicism. Everything reminds you of that childhood is just a re-written memory, and you can change it as often as you like, or as often as you need to. And while everyone shut their eyes, so you could change your blouse, you accidently grew up. You said "oh, well, alright, sure" and everyone opens their eyes and wants you dead. In the way that puberty screws you up, and society screws you worse. Besides, you don't have it in you to explain anything, you're tired, goddamnit, why doesnt anyone ever understand when you're tired? Your grandmother holds a rosary in one hand and painkillers in the other, and all you can remember is how you've always wanted to be just like her. I'm sitting at a table now, and girls are walking by drunk.They are giggling and laughing and having a great time, and it's really upsetting me. They do things like have movie night and braid each others hair &say things like "BEST FRIENDS FOR LIFE" constantly. Of course the only reason that this upsets me is that I'm completely jealous. I wonder if they have ever left anything. I bet they were proud of themselves for going to a school that was forty-five minutes away, I'm sure they pat themselves on the back for being so brave. I want to ask "have you ever ran out of a room just to see if anyone will run after you?". Remember, by "room" I mean "state" and by "you" I mean "me". So I always end up sitting alone waiting for someone. Developing some sort of neurosis in order to pass the time. I'm waiting for the good feeling to wear off, because it always does. I'm waiting until I can put more things up my nose, or maybe I'm waiting for more hands to be placed over my mouth. I think sometimes when I sit like this, I convince myself that someone eventually will fall in love with me, that someone will think I'm really swell and offer to hold my hand at night. But I know this is not so, no one ever really falls in love with me. No one really has that in them. I'm sure my hair isnt pretty enough, my cheekbones arent as high, I don't speak in a way you could love, the way I bite my lower lip, it probably makes you want to slap me. I try and pretend I don't believe in the love I read about in books, that it is just silly, just an illusion. I like to pretend that I dont envy the way he holds her head during an on screen kiss. I like to pretend a lot of things. And I always end up realizing that it's basically my fault. I have nightmares, and it's my fault. I wake up grabbing the sheets for someone to hold me, and it's my fault. I wake up grabbing for someone, like someone should be laying next to me patiently, just waiting to hold my hand and kiss my forehead and say "Daniela, everything is alright". It's funny, because I wake up feeling like everyone else left me. I wake up clawing at my sheets, you'd think I was searching for my long lost lover who fell asleep beside me, with his abdomen pressed deep into my spine, like we're the same person. But he didnt fall asleep next to me, it's really not like that at all. It's like you left your long lost lover at a bar, and you came home alone, just to throw up. Maybe I'll win the Pulitzer prize for puking, or the congressional medal of honor for crying out my eyes. Maybe one day I'll be able to explain this accurately, to tell you the reason I'll give you my soul if you'll run after me. Maybe one day I'll be able to give you the reasons that I'm so in love with the underdog, maybe one day I'll be able to tell you why I'd serve the sentence for Johnny 99, or why I'd let the witch put me in her oven. But right now, all I can tell you is, I feel like everyone else has left me. I feel like Spot has every right to kill me in the backyard. Every right. In the end, I'm left waiting for the eulogy, I am the man who leaves a room of one hundred nice girls to go in search of a prostitute, for true love. So when I wake up I have to remind myself that it was me who left everyone, that it was me who ran from my life screaming, like it was on fire. Like it was the prettiest building I had ever seen, bursting into flames before my eyes. No one asks who lit the match until they make sure everyone made it out alive. It is those few minutes where some of us breathe easy, and some of us just hold our breath. When I leave it's because I have to. I leave like it's love, or like it's sudden. Like it's a book or a mini-series playing on TV after everyone has stopped watching. I am your only option unless you want to watch the infomercials. I leave because I have to. I am a ten year old girl walking into her backyard to play with her best friend in the whole world, the family pet named "Spot". I have just had a rough day at school, a boy made fun of me on the bus, and I tried so hard not to cry. I bit my tongue and I lifted my eyes toward the ceiling, I kind of smiled and I wished everyone else would stop laughing. I'm the ten year old girl, just waiting to go home and play with Spot. I'm just so excited. I'm walking in the backyard to play with Spot, not even going to eat a snack, who needs a snack? I'm the ten year old girl realizing that Spot is barking all over the place, that he's foaming at the mouth, that Spot is ready to go for the kill. He's ready to jump toward the jugalar and call it a day. If she doesnt turn around and run, Spot is going to rip apart her little face. So she does, she backs away and runs with tears in her eyes, not fully understanding why; suddenly everything has changed. Then she watches Spot get shot in the head like it's all her fault. Unless you're that little girl, unless youre watching your dog with rabies change your life, unless you're running away because it's just too much-if you're not any of that, You have no idea how I feel. Everyone has always told me "go, go, go" no one has ever said "stop". I have no concept of "no more". I always want more. More, more, more. They always handed me two hundred dollars for passing go, and gave me a slap on the wrist plus a get out of jail free card. They told me "dream if you want to dream" so I did. Everyone else developed a concept of stop, but for me it was always "go, go, go-more, more, more". I wil keep drinking after everyone else realizes they are drunk, I will keep driving after I run out of road, I will keep singing after the song is over, because I can never manage to get it out of my head. I will keep talking after everyone else is done listening, because I am so scared to shut up. I will take more sleeping pills, just incase. More tylenol just incase. I will read the page twice, because I feel like I am missing something. I will sit there waiting to feel more, because I always want more. My best friend eats her eggs and fucks her boyfriend. She smiles blissfully like a Stepford wife. I sit around thinking about the word "scrambled" and waiting for the fucking rapture. I used to sneak out of my window and meet up with my friends, we would listen to punk rock, or rock, or hardcore or anything, we'd listen to it because we wanted to feel like we had a purpose. Everyone else was asleep in their beds, but we stayed up getting stoned, waiting for more. And even when they were done, when they were laughing and realizing that we cant care about "Anarchy in the UK", because this is America, and it is not the 1970's, I'd keep inhaling, I'd keep thinking "what if the goverment puts a chip in my head"-and maybe that's just what they did. That's the whole reason I ever started doing drugs in the first place, the whole reason I ever started drinking, or talking or writing, it was because I always felt so much more. Everyone else had a concept of enough, and I always ended up waiting for more. So maybe this is more than my obsession with nightmares, maybe this is more than even my disatrous obsession with the American dream. Maybe this is more than all those books I read, or all those boys who will never fall in love with me. Maybe, it's more than my obsession with numbers, my theory that if I can learn calculus, I will really save my soul. For me two plus two only works out in theory, never in practice. Some things are so much better in theory. I am so much better on paper than in real life. Even communism looks good on paper. So I go through life believing I could fix it all if I just learned some calculus. If I could just sit down and get past the fact that there are things called "imiganary numbers" and that if you multiply two negative numbers, you get a positive. If I could be good at long division and recite the first nine billion digits in pi, than I too would be saved. Everyone else could get communion, have the light crisp wafer of Christ absorb on their tongue, and be, I'd be content with integers. I tell this to math majors all the time, and they always shoot me down. They practically get offended. They say "I know Calculus, and everything in my life is not okay". They say it in this condscending tone that blows my mind completely. It's just how I think if I can get some random boy who is incapable of love, to love me, that I really will be worth saving. It's why Sylvia Plath puts her head in the oven, and no one ever questions that maybe she was just trying to bake. And I'm talking to math majors thinking "Goddamnit!" I want to scream "I HATE YOU" I want to tell them that they don't understand, that it doesnt matter if it doesnt work for them, that it will work for me. I want to slap their stupid faces and leave the room screaming. I want to have a breakdown infront of everyone. I just want to say "thanks for missing the point completely". And just like everything else in my life that starts off as just being good and simple, this too ends up being bad and complicated. I am being told that there is no quick fix to this burning desire in the pit of my stomach, that I am going to actually have to get it together, and work it all out. And I'm so homesick, but I don't know where I live. I listen to songs over and over again, and I don't know if this is really about my bad dreams. I can tell you that I was relieved when the building burst into flames, I can tell you that not everything I tell you is true. Maybe I wanted Spot to tear apart my face. Infact, I probably walked back outside and got mawled on purpose, because I needed the conflict. I needed more. Maybe I am glad that they will never love me as much as I need them to, that they will never love this face, or this mind. Because if they did, what would my new goal be? If I found happiness, I'd probably drown myself. I'd probably let tigers tear me to shreds like they do in my worst dreams. Because I am perpetually fucked. My parents call me from one thousand miles away to tell me they finally found the receipt. They give out a big sigh of relieve over the telephone, my father tells me in a ridiculously bombastic tone "Your mother just put it inbetween two phone books, it was here all along". Finally, they can get their refund. Finally they can send the baby back. Maybe now they can love each other again, if they ever loved each other at all. I want to say "please love me, please don't go, please don't leave me, please make me stop-please I just want to stop", but instead I just turn off the phone. I collect my two hundred dollars and swallow more sleep, I pray to Gods that have stopped listening, and I wait for lovers who will never come. I can tell you the exact dates off when I went wrong, I can give you a list of witnesses. If my life were a court trial, it would be a lot easier. If it were a book, you'd read it all the time. If it were communism, you'd switch your political party. But in practice, it just all falls through the cracks. You will pound down my door, and you'll want me dead. You will be screaming and dying in the street, and strangers will ask you if you have tried the Atkins diet, because they think maybe that is all you need. Maybe it's the bread. You'll be like all my long lost lovers who suffocate me in public, who place their hands over my mouth until my face turns blue and I fall onto the floor. You will say "you were so much better on paper". And you will be so right. Because at funerals, everyone is made out to be a great person. When you write down accomplishments, they always sound like a lot more. When you have nightmares that are vivid and last for hours, they always seem so real. You wake up so relieved, so relieved that it was just a dream, it was so much worse when your eyes were shut. But it's not like you've ever even gone to sleep to dream. You're scared of the dark and your parents hate you. You leave everyone and everyone leaves you. No one is following you out of the room, and you wake up not knowing where you are. You never know where you are. and remember by "you" I just mean "me".

Read and post comments | Send to a friend

ghosts

nobody@vox.com(Daniela Scrima) — Wed, 14 May 2008 22:00:08 -0700

I don't know what made us want to find something like that so badly, but it's all I wanted to do. I had just graduated high school, in a few months I'd be moving away from everyone. We all took trips to the Super Wal*Mart together, and we wandered through the aisles of Target in search of the perfect twin extra long sheets. We did all the things that incoming freshman should do, we just also consistently went looking for ghosts. That summer was about a trip to Dunellon, nights spent in the old slave graveyard and endless drives around the abandoned mental institution. We hit up every website to find out where the ghosts were, checked all of "Haunted Florida," we were even willing to leave Pinellas County. Looking back, I want to say that this was just what we did because there was nothing else to do. Now, Clearwater is not in the middle of nowhere. In fact- it is a hot bed for tourism, there are gorgeous beaches, and then little miniature golf courses scattered around among shops where you can get your named spelled out in sea shells. On the weekends you can do things like ride a jet ski, or go parasailing or do other things someone would do when they vacationed to the west coast of Florida. But you see, when you live there, you don't really do these things. You may go to the beach, but unlike the tourists, we don't swim in January. There are so many months left in the year with nothing to do, where you drive around and think "there is absolutely nothing to do". So, wanted to find ghosts, or demons, or anything really. Sometimes we'd steal our father's flashlights, the very strong ones that they saved for the hurricanes (because when this story takes place, Florida is still plagued by storms) and we'd pack bags and look up directions and go and try and find ghosts. It wasnt only that summer - that summer when I swore I'd never go back, it was before then and after then, too. Even now when I visit we make a three hour drive to go to Spook Hill, we ride around in the Circus Town, we stare at the window. But I want to tell you about how desperate I felt when I did it then, how good I felt. It felt like sex for the first time, when you have sex when you're too young. You are in on a big secret that no one else knows about. You feel special and you feel disgusting. We fucked when we were too young and then we looked for ghosts all summer when we turned 18. And all of the ghosts were supposed to be kept in grave yards. But I left for Ohio, after nights of abandonment and a going away party, I went to my grandmothers house and in many ways, I purged myself of the things that I had done wrong. I had this kind of insanity about me in high school that I don't think I can accurately describe because I just can't feel it anymore. I had some kind of anger, and then I went to Ohio. I spent two months in the summer there before returning to Florida to gather my belongings. I wanted to stay in Ohio because I had lived there until I was 8, and I had no choice about moving to Florida and I felt that it wasnt fair I wanted to give myself something back. And I didn't know that my grandmother would die or that I would fuck up or that I would leave and return to read some broken down eulogy . But that summer I felt like everything was mine. The ghosts were mine and the house was mine and my freedom would be mine and I'd learn to stop writing, even in letters to men I'd never end up meeting, because I wanted some things to be personal. I go through these phases, like then where I don't want to share anything. And then sometimes I am just Barbara Walters talking to Oprah Winfrey, I don't want it to be mine, I want to get rid of it. You see, now it's yours. You'll have to go there to Dunellon and see that church and ride in a car while the lights go out. You, you can go drink red wine in my grandmother's backyard and you can kiss the boy across the street. You can drive to the east coast of Florida on drugs with your best friends and decide to legally change your name to Aurora Borealis before the olympics or the floods or the concept of four or five years- now you can do that. There are one million things that I can never say anything about, so just let me tell you these things. None of the ghosts would look us in the eye, you know, you know what? I don't even know if any of those places were actually haunted. I don't even know if you believe in ghosts at all.

DSC03562

DSC03584

Read and post comments | Send to a friend

in regards to the murder of Rachel Hoffman

nobody@vox.com(Daniela Scrima) — Wed, 14 May 2008 21:57:04 -0700

  A girl I went to high school with gets murdered a few nights before mother's day. I hear about it on a Facebook thread, I start reading the news articles online, watching clips of video. The whole situation infuriates me. She was twenty-three years old, a recent FSU graduate and this is a classic story of not only the system- but the whole war on drugs failing. The story goes something like this. At some point, she gets in trouble with drugs- marijuana, selling some small amount of pot, or possession some thing like that. And they work out a plea bargain with her: jail time or becoming an informant. So a scenario is set up and with the help of the Tallahassee Police Department a twenty-three year old girl, with no training in this matter is to arrange to meet two men. Not only is she sent to buy 1,500 pills of ecstacy and crack but she is also sent to buy a hand gun. Instructions are given, protocols are apparently taken and the plan is set in motion. She'll meet them in a park, she's not supposed to leave the park. And then, something goes wrong. Maybe the fact that she did not have experience buying crack and guns played a role, maybe it was a nervousness in her body that set the men off, maybe an informant system where people who get in trouble for pot are sent out to buy weapons is just a little off- but something goes wrong. The police lose contact with her. They can't find her, or her car. They say that she did something wrong- that she left when she was told to stay. In their defense, the police say that she did not follow instructions, that her mistakes led to her own death. A missing persons report is put out Wednesday night, her car shows up Thursday morning, the two man she was supposed to buy the narcotics from our arrested in Orlando, and her body is found sometime afterward. They call her parents early in the morning to tell them. And I wonder how they phrase it on the phone- "Your daughter that you raised, that you held as a child, your daughter that graduated from Countryside High School in 2003 and Florida State University in 2007, your daughter that you loved very much is gone." Or do they just say "I am sorry," while writing their defense statements? Do they say anything at all besides how she did not follow procedures. And I wonder what that would be like, meeting men in a park, and asking them for pills, for crack, a hand gun- what kind of voice should you use? What kind of face do you make? What if your cell phone rings you? What if they drag you away? What if they tell you to get into the car? What if you think about your mother's face and mother's day, and how your mother would feel- what if that goes through your head and it is obvious to the men across from you that something is wrong- what is the procedure for that? What is the Tallahassee Police Departments plan then? And you cannot tell me that this is not the system failing us, you cannot tell me that something is not very, very wrong about this situation. http://www.wctv.tv/home/headlines/18830539.html

Read and post comments | Send to a friend

you say good-bye, I say hello.

nobody@vox.com(Daniela Scrima) — Wed, 14 May 2008 21:50:15 -0700

DSC03216

Not only did I just wake up, but someone is tapping on my window. I walk out of my room in a haze, stumble through the living room and walk outside in my pajamas. I should be awake, it's sometime in the afternoon. But I have a high fever which I've been sleeping off, I've been dreaming so deeply for so many hours that it will take a few minutes before I realize where I am or can process the information in front of me. When I open the door a dude my age is standing there, he is tall with shaggy hair. I want to ask him if he's come here to be wed, maybe this is the arranged marriage that I long for. He will come in, put a ring on my finger. It will be in exchange of my fathers 4 best goats, or I guess since my father has no goats, I will force him to offer up his four best kung-fu students. They will protect this shaggy haired man wherever he goes, they will guard his neck if he ever attempts to use a razor and walk two behind and two in front of him when we go to find the land to build our dream home in...I don't know, East New York?

"The woman upstairs is yelling for you..."

"What?" my eyes are barely open and of course this asshole has to ruin my fantasy (in the way that tall men always do) by speaking

He points up with his fingers.

"She says she has three rules for you...."

"What???"

And when I turn my head, I see that the woman upstairs is in fact yelling for me. She is hanging her eighty-six year old body outside of the window

"DANIELA!" Where have you been I've been calling your name?" by this time my fiance has fled the front porch, I am left alone with my building.

;"I was sleeping...I'm not feeling so...is everything alright?"

"I have three rules for you."

I must look like a mess. I want a really good sandwich, I want to collapse on the pavement. I am listening to what the three rules will be.

"Number One! When are you and Kiley home? When are you girls ever home? What days are you home? What times? I've been knocking all morning."

"Oh well..we both do a lot of writing from home...we are home a lot...school is over for now and I don't really have a set schedule or anything."

A woman who is wearing a mu-mu walks by and says "Hey Angie!" to which Angie just nods her head, like a queen or maybe a police officer

"Number Two! You have to put your name on the mailbox! Did you get that package I put downstairs? It was waiting for you for two days! Two days and no one came for it!"

The funny thing is, I did get the package, and it's a good thing she did not open it because it was 4 porn dvds I was sent to review. Something about a Dominatrix and Double Penetration Paradise. I really do have to remember to put my name on the mail box. Honestly, I should get a P.O Box but I know that I wouldn't check it. I can say that I would but when it came down to it, I would never walk ten blocks for my mail, I barely walk next door for my mail as it is. Even if I was walking by the post office, I probably would not stop there. This is the kind of laziness that I have built into me, the kind that really seems to have no pattern and make no sense. I rarely transfer trains because I would prefer to walk then wait in the station, but if it comes down to me having to walk to a P.O Box I know it's just not going to happen.

"Oh yeah. I will put our names on the mail box right away."

"Number three! Why don't you ever come and visit me?"

Shit. You see, we try and go visit. We sit with the Romanian woman that is there to take care of Angie. She tells me, pulling me in closely by the arm "We have a lot of Danielas in my country," and I like this. I like a woman who uses this as an opening sentence. But this whole scenario is really turning up my Catholic guilt. I like- have always liked- hanging out with old women. From the time that I was four years old I have loved to set up camp on a front porch or in a back yard and here half a dozen decades worth of stories. I love it. But just like the mail, here is the problem. I become commited to people, whether they are men that tap on the window or relatives that I phone overseas, I become commited to them, I offer them up large parts of myself and then without warning or notice, something will happen, and I will withdrawl. And these relationships are so sensitive, so delicate, it's so easy to disappoint. I have lived here for two and a half weeks, and already, it's so easy to dissapoint.

Angie shuts the windows, I run inside to gather tape and notebook paper. I write my name and then my roommate's onto the middle mail box &then I rush back inside, climb into bed. I keep downing mugs of thera-flu and different people come over.

Our futon arrives from Target, my roommate assembles it so I can camp out in the living room and watch television. I try and write up a review of a show I went to Sunday night, to no avail. I watch Oprah so I can hear about a polygamy cult (I end up defending polygamy to the television the whole time) and then I putt on CNN. Jackson Davis accused me of watching CNN the other night as we chatted. He favors MSNBC, he explains to me that you can always tell where a person gets their news, and it's true. I watch so much CNN that I quote it without realizing it. I probably talk to you with my hands, not knowing that my own fingers are plagarizing the hand motions of John King. All I need is a large map of the United States and with the wave of a finger I will make states turn different shades of blue.

I scoot closer toward the TV because John Edwards has endorsed Barack Obama. I get particuarly giddy about this. I know everyone is sick of hearing all of this, but I'm sucked in. I'm hooked. Different visitors come over through out the day, they ask if I've been eating , if I've been drinking enough water and what I really want to say is "shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up," instead I offer them cups of thera-flu or try and start an argument. I am bored with a fever. I want someone to take my pants off and have a good debate! Instead everyone half heartedly insults Hillary Clinton (whom I defend) and besides, I didn't even bother putting on pants today.

Later in the evening we all watch America's Next Top Model. The ladies have come over and we are all scattered across the floor, slathering lotions on to our legs, I am recommending vitamins. We all want Whitney, the plus-sized model to win. In reality, she doesn't seem very plus-sized at all, but I guess that's modeling. Regardless, we all want her to win, and she does. In my fever haze I am happy about it. The little things, like reality television, probably don't mean as much as I feel like they do at the time, but I enjoy in this moment. It feels good to sit among friends and watch these girls cry, better then it would feel to watch commentary about how offensive Barack Obama can be as he as reffered to two women as "sweetie" during his campaign.

But he can call me "sweetie" any time. Him or the man at the door, in exchange for all of my father's farms, all the tea in China and we'll fly on some hot air balloon, watching the states change different shades of blue &always forgetting to check the mail.

Read and post comments | Send to a friend

two headed boy

nobody@vox.com(Daniela Scrima) — Sun, 05 Nov 2006 17:36:00 -0800

Hi I made a vox account. I really don't know what I am doing, do you know what I am doing? I don't. I don't. I miss livejournal. Vox, hello.

DSC03987

Read and post comments | Send to a friend