The Other One

informant

And then a few hours go by and I am okay enough again.

Up and down. I wish I could make some sense of it. The downs are very down, but they are not dependent on circumstance.

I don't think. I'm not so good at stepping outside myself to figure it out.

I'm not sure it matters. Freddy Mercury would say it does not. He might even say anyone can see that.

Mine is a story in which the main character is named Rat Finklett (thanks to Harlow Flick, Right Fielder for the nickname). Ratty F mostly tells on people and throws everyone under the bus: the informant - because knowledge is power!  

Is it power I am looking for? It might be. I have so little.

Why do I care? It's all smoke and mirrors anyway, the power thing. There can only really be the illusion of power, right?

Death comes for us all, bitches.

And yes, I smoked a bowl a few minutes ago in the garage. Mom's all set up for the night with her false teeth a'fizzing in the Polident, "her" cat Gracie reigning o'er the queendom, and the Fox News mambo, bash and blame the libs, 1-2-3, as lullaby night night. Her briefs are clean and her face is washed. The commode is fresh and her glass replenished with the coldest possible water. You have to run that water for a few minutes to get it cold enough, she insists. A sandwich baggie sits atop the filled glass, lest dust particles or spider sneezes make their way in.

This household is definitely not up for Green House of the Year award. In addition to her water wastin', she loves her napkins, paper plates and plastic straws.

There is a rhythmic routine to our days that soothes even as it stings. If I am not preparing to do something for her I am doing the thing, or pre-preparing to do the next thing as a favor to Future Amy.

Future Amy always appreciates Past Amy for her consideration and kindness.

The coffee pot is filled with water, the grounds already sitting in their little filter basket for tomorrow - all I need do in the morning is flip the switch - and my mother's coffee cake is on a paper plate with a napkin tucked beneath, and the cat food cans sit ready to be opened and dished out. Two clean mugs sit next to the coffee pot, one with a plastic straw already in it.

Anything Present Amy can do to make life a little easier for Future Amy is a good thing.

Yesterday I went to a lunch party full of boomer hippies and witches. Everyone was kind and friendly and very liberal. There was a clothing swap, a banned book donation spot (I brought 6 books, including a signed copy of The Giver) and a sign on a tree that said In A World Where You Can Be Anything, Be Kind. I met a lady who introduced herself as Apple Tree. Apple Tree and her wife were from Ontario Canada, and they had a poodle that acted and looked like a lamb. Another lady was from Syracuse and lived in what she called a cooperative - which I assume is what I'd call a commune...but I'm not sure, because then the food came out and I wandered over to that. The host had everything catered (gluten-free all-natural organic super foods) - and my stars it was delicious. I didn't think I'd like any of it. I had fun and felt among 'my people,' the weird ones.

I find I am more grateful for my friendships as I get older. I always feel better after I've been with friends, and I treasure them all. I have lost so many to death, a few to betrayal. If you turn mean or cruel on me, I walk away.

My cell phone's voicemail has 12 messages on it; at least 5 or 6 of them are dead people talking to me.

I like to have the dead people's voices. It feels like a magical thing to have.

Laura (the Other One) is climbing on me. She wants to go to bed, and I do too. It's 7:23pm and feels like midnight. I do love bedtime. Sweet sweet nothing.

Fare thee well.