Novel Treatments / Lilacs Out Of the Dead Land

   I usually get up about 15 minutes after my alarm clock rings. Why don’t I just set my alarm clock for 7:15? Well, I did. I got up at 7:30 on an old clipper in the tropics; the people are more colorful than the flora out there on that old boat. Then, I heard my little sister run down the stairs and my mother yell at her from the backdoor. My dog pushed the door in and clawed my face. She has a temper, that’s what my mother says. I don’t believe dogs are allowed to have tempers.
    After school was over I went straight home, avoiding as many people as I can. That morning I forgot my glasses and though I am, hopefully, far from legally blind, the world looks sort of like a Van Gogh without them. Inspiring? Sometimes.
   I napped on the couch until the pillow on my hot face wasn’t capable of diminishing the sounds of home. My bedroom gets too muggy during the day and I end up dreaming about mud baths, being alone in foreign places, jail, and being fed off a menu of 6 legged creatures. I’d rather sleep with a pillow on my head in the living room.
   Having a birthday is like stepping off a plane into the thick and putrid air of something; home, after being away for what seems like seconds, or maybe eons. Please, I say with slightly coffee stained teeth and sleepless eyes; please let this be the last time I have to walk through a little maze of strange and familiar corridors.
I often wonder about pacing; the way these short sentences make you feel, the way the time passes within words, the way I sleep for hours and dream up magical places but feel so empty when I wakeup. Pacing is very important, I think. I always drive a certain speed so I can catch all the green lights. It’s easy if you pace.
   The last few months have sort of been weighing me down. As if the last 18 years have been a dream and now like drips from a faucet in another room these hours are filled with an almost eerie sort of urgency. Turn off the faucet, screw it shut and stop trying to keep those eyes open. I wish I could put all of my ingenious thoughts to paper and awe the world but I’m too busy doing stuff that really matters. I should slow down.
   I’ve abandoned those old paint brushes and am starting with this little pencil because black and white, despite what they say, is really the way I want the world to be. I just need that little desk light; all those people in this big city are here for decoration. It’s just me and the spiders biting my ankles when I turn it out. Typewriters and canvases, mirrors and bookshelves, will chase you away. Into a large and dusty old closet, not attic, closet; they’ll swallow you and make your pretty pictures the stuff that fills those giant trashcans in backyards.

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