By Lindsey Renée Jacobs
“please could you stop the noise i’m trying to get some REST”
1:23 am the red numbers of the clock blink at me. The neighbors upstairs are still awake. Groan, creak, clunk, the sounds of living in an apartment. Did they switch a light on? Clank, clunk, clatter, laughter.
Are they hosting? Should I yell at them again? I’ll wait.
“in the neon sign scrolling up and down/ i am born again”
If I open my eyes will the sounds be less distracting?
Why does the room look that early morning blue color? It’s that street lamp outside the window. Damn safety. It’s never dark enough here. Even the sky is bleached from the ceaseless light.
The Open sign for the sports bar across the street is struggling to stay alive, morphing into a strobe light. The window’s blinds keep lighting up red then yellow then red again, endlessly changing. Maybe if I wedge this blanket over the window it will be better? It only muffles the light so the room is now a dusty black but it’s an improvement.
“you watch your feet for cracks in the pavement”
Did I sleep for a few minutes? I don’t know, but I’m awake again. Lyrics from OK Computer keeping buzzing through my head, “This is what you get. This is what you get.” This is what I get for what?
Why can’t I sleep? The neighbors upstairs haven’t made any noises for a while. Maybe I’m being punished. I did yell at them earlier to “Shut the hell up!” They were making the apartment shake, stomping around loudly and laughing hysterically. I don’t think those were just the sounds of living.
Is a Christian allowed to shout “hell” like that? Probably not. I think it let them know how serious I was though.
Maybe I’m being punished for not being more neighborly. I only interact with them when I yell through the ceiling to shut. I don’t think I’ve ever even introduced myself. But it’s a city. It’s all about living as anonymously as possible.
“a song to keep us warm”
I hate sleeping alone. I used to imagine that an angel was sleeping with me at night when I was little. I imagined his wings wrapped around my frail body keeping me warm, shielding me. I’m too old for that now.
I don’t want to sleep alone. These blankets can’t give off their own heat or whisper promises of protection.
One of my friends used to sleep with a knife in the drawer beside her bed just encase someone broke in. She doesn’t anymore now that she doesn’t sleep alone.
Maybe I should ask her if she still has that knife, just in case.
“the emptiest of feelings”
“An awful, kind of, Sunday hollow feeling.” What was that from? I like it.
Sundays at my parents’ house were like that. Now I feel it all the time.
Why do I feel like this? There doesn’t seem to be a reason. I like to believe in cause and effect, but maybe this doesn’t have a cause.
Or maybe, I just don’t want to admit it.
“fitter happier more productive/ … sleeping well (no bad dreams)/ no paranoia/ … No longer afraid of the dark/ Or midday shadows/ Nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate …”
What are the next words? “Nothing so childish” I think. Nothing so childish as what?
“i trust i can rely on your vote”
Who were they talking about at work today? Or yesterday, by now. One of the presidential candidates I think. Maybe I should start looking into them. They keep talking about them at work.
I hate watching TV or reading the news, though. They’re so addictive.
But, I think I should start looking into the presidential candidates.
either way you turn i’ll be there”
I still miss him. Can I admit that? I wouldn’t tell anyone, but I still do. Not always. Just when I feel like I’m losing it. He could always talk me down. Make me reasonable. I’m so unreasonable.
I miss him when I feel like Hesse’s Siddhartha. When I think all of this is not worthy of me, that it all lies, it all stinks, it all stinks of lies, it all pretends to be meaningful and joyful and beautiful, and all it is, is concealed putrefaction[1]. When the world feels like a horrible delusion and I’m sunk in despair I miss him. He’d give me hope again. He’d make me see beauty again. He’d remind me to love again, and to forgive the world for being imperfect.
Now I can’t even forgive myself for being imperfect, and the world tastes bitter and life feels like torture[2]. But he can’t help that. He can’t help that he left either. Everyone leaves eventually.
“a heart that’s full up like a landfill./ A job that slowly kills you./ Bruises that wont heal.”
5:03 am. My alarm will be blaring in an hour. I haven’t slept yet. I don’t suppose I’ll be able to.
My roommate will be happy that I’ll turn my alarm off right away. She’s a light sleeper. She doesn’t have to be up until 7:30 am.
What will I wear? Probably my black dress pants and white silk shirt; those will look nice. I feel like being monochromatic today. I wonder whose work they’ll have me editing?
Just thought of what that kid said back in college.
“For your career have you considered ‘critic’? Not art critic or book critic. Just critic,” he said.
“Critic is my being. It need not be my career,” I said, but I guess it is now. It’s working out for the most part.
“no one else would know”
Boom. Shutter. Grate. The garbage truck is here now emptying out the dumpster. I might as well get up. It’s nearly six and there is no way I can be louder than the dumpster. But how do I turn off this alarm? I think my roommate said that I have to hit the cancel button and then the alarm button. Why do they make it so hard?
The red alarm light went out so this better not start roaring while I’m in the shower. 5:39 am and I’m already getting ready. When I’m done with the shower maybe I’ll sit outside and watch the sunrise.
Who knows? I always intend to.
I think I’ll listen to Radiohead in the shower. Good thing the bathroom isn’t right next to our room.
“i’m on a roll./ i’m on a roll this time./ i feel my luck could change.”
Dream on.
