I'll get back to the crying girl in time, but right now is for clarity. I'll vigorously shake my head until she's gone.
My bedroom overlooks the courtyard of a drug rehabilitation clinic. At any given moment I can peer out of my fourth floor window down upon scrums of people. They tremble, pace, laugh, do jumping jacks, high five each other, smoke cigarettes, hug, and sometimes cry. At first the proximity of it all made me nervous; I'd have daydreams at work in which a lone junkie uses his superhuman-crack strength to bound onto my sill or clamber up the walls of my building to steal my Simpsons DVD's and various gourmet cooking oils to sell for heroin. But now I barely ever notice.
There's nothing quite like watching two strung-out rehab patients get into a fistfight, also. Twin whirling dervishes of gnashing teeth and bloody knuckles. It was, as Cotter would say, "dynamite, man. T N fuckin' T."
And this is how I feel sometimes, as though I am a walking, talking courtyard for these transients, bellowing 'woe-is-me' in pentatonic harmonies. Like my brain and my eyes and my fingers are in constant flux - (which they, in fact, are) - sometimes pacing, sometimes trembling. And sometimes my head just feels like a big ol' fistfight.
I'll get there. I'll tell you about who died, and who vanished. About who hates me, and who doesn't. And about who this is for.
But first, the crying girl...