AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 5/03/2004 12:21:00 PM ----- BODY:

Regression

Yesterday I was so happy, all day. The day before that and the day before that, too. I suppose I had to come down from my cloud sometime--but today I can barely stand being conscious. Yesterday I was waiting for Steve's concert with the Southeastern Massachusetts Wind Symphony to begin, I sat in a little lounge area outside in the hall and read Dry by Augusten Burroughs, which is turning out to be a riveting read. Near me in another little area of the lounge--a conversation circle type of setup, if you will--there were two little curly-haired blonde girls that were among the most transfixingly beautiful things I have ever seen. I'd steal glances at them as they babbled and chomped on animal crackers and did other dorky little-kid things that would have been normal had they not each had the most tiny, perfect faces--too perfect, set like porcelain dolls, perfectly airbrushed pink at the cheeks. I don't know why I feel the need to write about them. They're just my most vivid memory of yesterday, I guess. That's the way yesterday was--beautiful things seemed to settle near me. During the concert a woman came and sat down next to me holding a bouquet of flowers, and I almost felt as though a kind and benevolent universe had sent her with that sweet scent in my direction. This morning, though, I feel like rusty fishhooks have been jammed through my upper eyelids, and then attached to forty pound weights. All I can think about despite three cups of coffee is sleep. The linen shirt I have on today reminds me of the gigantic down-filled duvets they gave us at the hotels in Austria and Germany when I took trips there with the orchestra in high school. I think, oh, remember those? Remember how you sank into them, cozy but cool? Remember those sweet spring nights in those faraway countries, getting the best sleep of your life? I'm like someone crawling across the desert, dreaming of pure bubbling springs as they die of thirst. I want one of those duvets, and I want to cuddle up in it and not come out for at least a week. For some reason, I also want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I want to be a baby. I want to be swaddled and held and unconscious. I did not sleep well last night, and I don't know why--I didn't smoke before bed and I didn't have any caffeine all day. But I just lay there for most of the night. Maybe it was because my windows were open and the humidity made even my normally militantly, obstinately straight hair frizz and stick to my neck in annoying little curls; maybe it was the feeling of the damp, clammy air hanging over my bed that kept me awake. Whatever it was, it has doomed me to a sour morning. I'm hoping I'll be human again by the afternoon.
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