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Sound; And the girl caress me down... - Sublime on the brain.

Sight; Ghosts everywhere I look.

Taste; Coffee.

May 27, 2000
Room by room.

No picture today, I'm spending this weekend doing laundry at my father's house while he's in TN for Memorial Day.
It's odd, this being the house that I grew up in, the only one I've ever known. Unlike every other friend I had during childhood and adolescence, I remained in the same comfort of *Oakhood Road. The hallway that they walk my baby brother back and forth to calm him, I put those grooves into the wood with pink and purple skates when I was 6. Once Katie dragged me down the same planks and proceeded to give me the largest splinter known to man in, of all places, my ass. I could identify the person that passed my door by the sound of their step no matter how quiet they were trying to walk. I would also here my father's gas early morning while he was getting ready to leave at 5 every day. He referred to it as his "love call." We were the most loved children within a five-mile radius. Heh.

Adam and I slept in the guest bed last night, my room having been converted into the guestroom and nursery. My closet's been removed, the walls painted, the ceiling too. Everything is different; any mark that I put between those four walls is long gone. It's even hard to remember that I even lived there for 17 years.

I've had my ass beaten in that room, my body made love to, my heart broken and filled twice as many times, cried my eyes out, screamed, cursed, written, once I even peed in a jar so I didn't have to leave my room while tripping at age 14. I've drunk, dropped, smoked, snorted, all in that room. The worst beatings of my life took place in that room. The best sex too. Take from that what you will.

The walls have been powder blue, with a photo of an air balloon as it's only decoration until I hit maybe 6, when I decided it should be yellow. Then later, dark blues, then teal, then purple with teal trim. Then my father's wife repainted it forest green, then again to the pale yellow of the nursery this past year.

The closet that stemmed most of the nightmares of my life is gone, removed entirely. It stood out from the wall maybe four feet, with no door but a curtained opening that would blow in the breeze of my window that stood open because I was sneaking a late night smoke. If I timed my lighting of the cigarette with the timing of our heating system the smoke would escape out the window entirely, leaving no chance of me incurring my parents wrath. Not that I never got caught. Everything I did I got caught. I spent many a year in that room grounded. My friends used to make fun of me because I spent at least 5 months out of any given year in my room, grounded. You know, I deserved it though.

Because of this I have a more than healthy fear of the repercussions of my actions. Don't play your music too loud or you'll piss someone off, etc. etc. etc.

Some fat woman is across the street spraying for some kind of insect right now, probably ants. I don't think there was an ant problem here. It's painful to watch her carry her bulk. Quick prayers to the God of Ass Fat, please never allow me to let myself reach that point.

Adam is sitting outside on the porch that my father built when I was 9. I don't remember what it looked like before he did, just that we never went out the back door really. We've been relaxing in the sun since we woke up. Yes, we bought a pack of cigarettes and yes we bought Caribou depth charges. The one vice we haven't reverted to is buying any illegal substances, I'm proud of us for that, but it is hard baby dolls, so hard.

I feel reflective today, I want to walk through each room and remember at least one significant thing that happened there before my mother left. That's where my memories seem to start, I have to reach for anything that happened before then. Which is strange because that was only five years ago, and there's 12 other years to account for.

Room by room.

The stone steps that sit on the street before you reach the gate to the house, I used to sit there every morning and wait for Debbie and her mother to pick me up for summer school. That was maybe 1992, and that was the year I was the least attractive of all my girlfriends. Hard to watch all of your friends, models and otherwise, reeling them in while you act like it doesn't faze you one bit. Maybe that's why I put out too much. Not that I look back on my habits badly now, good practice, each of them sublime mistakes.

The front porch. That was where my happiest memories are here. Greg, Cailen, drinking smoking, my boys, my guys. I'm not sure why, but my entire life I've always wanted to be the girl that's one of the guys, but god help any other female that happened in on my territory. Those boys were my best friends and the people that caused me the most pain. They deserve an entry of their own. The porch is also where Adam and I would fuck on cold nights, me in his lap under the blanket, my parents nearby inside. Never in a hundred years could I do that now. Once, Adam tried to slip his hand between my thighs in a hotel room we were sharing with my father and his wife, asleep, and the thought turned my stomach.

The living room, the pink room, my father used to say it looked like a watermelon. Fuschia walls with lime green trim. My mother let me choose those colors at 13. I also had to be the one to paint it. That's the room that I was in when my brother grabbed me by my leather necklace and choked me until my mother made him stop. She looked like a woman about to lose her mind, all she wanted from us was love, to each other. He doesn't have it, never will. When my father came home, still in the same room, for this offense I was pushed to the floor and my head hit a frame that only held glass but no picture. He hurt my brother pretty badly too that day. I can't for the life of me remember why we were fighting in the first place. It's been converted in a lovely dining room now, with the wall knocked out into my parent's old bedroom, to create a family room.

The library. Nothing ever happened here. No one ever sat in here. I sit here now.

My parents bedroom. Sleeping on the floor next to my mother's side of the bed during a bad storm, my father telling her to make me go back to my own room, she arguing with him, I stayed. Sneaking into my father's wardrobe to snatch a handful of pot out of his pound bags that he used to keep, too young for that, but did it nonetheless. Later, in 1995, when Adam and I moved back in my father gave us that room. I cheated on Adam in that room. I was caught cheating by Adam in that room. Nothing happy there. Now, it's the family room, no bad vibes remain, it's a brand new entity.

My brother's room. Once one of his friends made me get under the cot he was sleeping on to play a game. I had to take off my clothes and he tried to grab me while lying above me on the cot. I was maybe five. I never went in there much.

My own room. My grandfather, one of the few times they ever came here. He gave me a She-Ra doll when I was sick in bed when I was seven. He made me laugh by giving the doll the finger.

The back room. My mother's workroom, I would sit in there on the phone for hours. Mostly with guys. The first time I was ever told I had a sexy voice was in that room. After that I would always try to pitch my voice lower on the phone.

The bathroom. Once, my mother was trying to remove a pimple from my shoulder, I was 15 or so, wearing only my robe. The pain hit me and for the first time in my life I passed out….fell through the shower curtain and landed spread eagle in the bathtub.

The kitchen. Crab boils. Pork chops. Pot roasts. Playing handball with the table pushed out of the way against the wall. Dinner with my family every night, my father calling my face a road map while chewing on over cooked squash.

The back porch. Bushels of oysters waiting for the grill. Patting my belly so my springer spaniel, Ginny, would jump in my lap. Cailen pulling a bottle of Brass Monkey out of his shorts for me when he was visiting me during another punishment. I think I loved him that day.

The back yard. Wet Willy, sprinklers, my first garden where I could only grow cucumbers, the final resting-place of too many pets to remember them all.

I love this place, though it doesn't feel like my own home anymore. They're going to sell it soon. Someone else will have his or her own list then.

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