Sinister: glass of chocolate milk, head of lettuce, darkness of clouds at one a.m.

[stacey dahling]

I’ve been hungry a lot lately.
And not just for food, although that is the most pressing hunger at the 
moment. I’m beginning to enjoy the sensation. It’s a constant reminder of 
sacrifice. What, exactly am I sacrificing, and why? I’m not sure entirely. 
Yet. But I’m getting there. I think.
It started with cheese. I stopped buying it. I realized one day that one 
chunk of cheese costs the equivalent of 10 loaves of bread, or 7 bags of 
pasta, or an entire refrigerator full of fresh produce from the neighborhood 
open-air market, including eggs. I felt like a wasteful sloth. And one 
without money to spare. It was also partly because somehow I do all the 
grocery shopping and the flatmate does the produce shopping and I realized I 
was getting the bad end of that bargain. Oil and detergent and cheese and 
milk and cereal come out to a bit more than spinach and onions and oranges. 
So I’m boycotting the market. Which leaves me with a loaf of bread, a bag of 
rice, lots of water, and random vegetables. And since I lack the culinary 
creativity to transform the random vegetables into something appetizing, 
it’s been toast and water for a few days.
This is all quite silly, I realize. I could simply ask the flatmate to go to 
the market for a change. But I feel that this can also be a valuable lesson 
in survival and poverty and making the most of raw ingredients. Or 
something.
Another thing contributing to this little bit of insanity is the insomnia 
that has crept into my bedroom and taken over my life. It makes me do 
strange things. Or, more like it, it makes me not do things. Like leave the 
house in the day time. Or work. Or get out of bed much. Or eat. Because who 
can rationalize making a meal at 3 a.m.? The other day I had a long bath. My 
insane bedhead since then is evidence of how close I’ve gotten to the shower 
since. Not very.
My flatmate has begun to look at me in disgust. My response has been to stay 
in my room as much as possible. Last night was a social evening. I did have 
to leave the room. I tried to tie my hair back and I entered the kitchen in 
my pajamas, having a beer and smiling as much as possible while the flatmate 
got drunk with her boyfriend and cooked an actual meal. Then I sat on the 
floor of the living room and ate the meal. Then I retreated to my room 
again.
The other night I left the building. I had intended all week to see a horrid 
American film in hopes that it would be cheesy enough to make me smile and 
dream without making me think too much. Every night I thought to myself, 
“tonight is the night I leave the house and go to the film.” But something 
always came up. I’d be in middle of composing a particularly important, long 
email. Or I’d fall asleep while reading. Finally, on Thursday, I raced 
through the streets, late, to the theatre. It was a nice diversion, but an 
awful film. The walk home, however, was glorious. I felt acutely alone. I 
fancied myself a strange solitary character in a sad poem or serious novel, 
walking the dark, lonely streets at an odd hour, swept up in some sort of 
emotion or thought. I hugged my coat to me, passing young and old people, 
all dolled up for a night on the town. The air was chill yet just warm 
enough. I craved cheese. Or chocolate. Or any processed, horrid food. Yet I 
somehow resisted the temptation and reveled in the pangs of hunger in my 
belly as I rounded the corner down the brothel street, which was oddly quiet 
and empty. It felt good. I have no idea why.
“I go my myriad ways blundering, bombastic, dragged by a self that can never 
be still, pushed by my surging blood, my reasoning mind.”  Thank you Ted 
Berrigan.
I do have the vague feeling that all this is not really healthy. And that 
the behavior actually worries people. It worries me sometimes. Enough to try 
to change it, in fact. But it’s also gotten comfortable.
The other night I didn’t sleep at all. And today I was only able to sleep in 
two-hour periods. Time has lost all significance. I drift in and out of 
consciousness, and waking has become pretty similar to sleeping. I spend a 
lot of time in a dream-like state. I’ve started creating fiction in my head 
again. Today I wrote some of it down. It wasn’t any good. But it got out of 
my head, a little.
I started to listen carefully to lyrics of songs, as if they hold the 
meaning of life or something. I’ve looked for it elsewhere, see, and I feel 
like I’m starting to recognize it in everything. I read something in a book 
and realize someone just told me the same thing in a letter and then I hear 
it in a song and it’s all a somewhat new revelation, but everywhere. Was it 
there before? Did I fail to see it? Maybe I wasn’t looking. In that case, 
how much else have I missed? I’ve been almost as hungry for meaning as for 
food. I guess there’s not much to do but lay in the darkness and think half 
the night away. It feels good to think again. I had stopped doing it because 
I would inevitably end up depressed. But I’m not now, oddly, even though of 
all times in my life, it is now that I am most alone.
Monday I might start talking to heroin addicts again. Interacting with 
criminals and those on the fringes of society always makes me feel the most 
alive. They seem to have more insights than normal people. They seem to have 
experienced the real stuff of life. And they are honest. More honest than I 
am, even to myself. I will at least walk. Walk until my limbs hurt and my 
side aches. There’s nothing like physical fatigue to revive you.
I listened to the new B&S single and it’s disturbingly twee. Like, too 
happy. And old-fashioned. I sighed when I heard it. And it made me sad. 
Because I was upset at how happy it was, so I thought that must make me old 
and bitter, or something. The day that I lose appreciation for B&S will be a 
very sad day. And I worried that it had come. So I put on IYFS in a panic 
and relaxed. A little. Maybe when I’m happier again it will all be ok. But 
for now. Eek!
I want to take a walk. But I’m in my pajamas. And it’s not safe.
So instead, I will put on some Fred Astaire and challenge myself not to 
think of Christmas. No, that is torture. I will put on some Camera Obscura 
and think of sweet Gavin and Primrose Hill and a bunch of sweet boys and 
girls huddled together awkwardly dreaming of a warm pub. And I will lay in 
the dark and join Ruvi in thinking about the sea, which is not so far away 
from here, and clear and enticing to most people but full of sea urchins who 
scare me away.
I hate beaches.

~dahling

ps: after that, I feel obliged to make you laugh. So please go to: 
http://buscemi.diaryland.com/older.html it’s Steve Buscemi’s online diary 
and it is absolutely hysterical.

pps: Bug Stu, you scare me. You exude coolness like cheap cologne. And 
although I like the scent, I’m afraid to get too close because it’s a bit 
overpowering. I have a very sensitive nose. Ian, your dates with the list 
smell lovely. And Ruvi. Mmm. Ken, you know I love you. You make me smile. 
Always.



http://www.geocities.com/dahling007


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