To the left of the Round Room is the Hyacinth Room.

Everything happens again. I want these words burned into my skin.
I like phrases and lyrics like this. Excerpts that seem simple and easy when ripped from their context. If you’re looking for an unmarked place...there’s no such place. And, I can see a bed and make it too. But especially, I miss my beautiful friend.

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I officially cannot sleep. Ever. It is bothersome, but... I was lying awake in bed the other night and turned onto my right side to gaze out the window. The shadow of trees, streetlights and the poles of my awning formed an inkblot painting. It was a giant ant walking through thick blades of grass. I wondered why I saw it so clearly, then realized I hadn’t taken my contacts out.

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Claire talks in her sleep. Mostly jibberish. The other night she clearly said, “Juliette (our cat) cut my hair and put on some purple ribbons so it looked nice and pretty.” That gives me such relief. My daughter, my only real love, is peaceful.

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I am sleepy now, but I know better than to get back into my bed and put out the light. I will lay awake. I will not sleep. I sat down at my computer feeling as if I had to write just one more time before my perspective changes. And I’d like to document the difference.

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Erin and I decided it should be government mandate that everyone keep an active log of their personal “truths” that become public record when you turn sixty years of age. Because, haven’t you just killed yourself - stayed awake at night and ripped your own flesh off - wondering what the answer really was? Did they really love you? Were they using you for something? Were they just scared? What did she really think of that gift? This way, there is hope that you will know the truth one day. Even if you were too chickenshit to ask then. Even if you felt lied to. If you find yourself still wondering these things as you’ve reached your golden years, you can access Jane Jones’ Personal Truth documents. AHA! She did sleep with Professor Smith to get that A! I knew it! Or perhaps, sadly, Yes, you were just a fine distraction.

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I cannot really explain the entire circumstance regarding the next decision Erin, Jen and I made weeks ago. I will write a false explanation that is similiar enough to work. Nasty Person was convinced that Nice Person was seeing someone behind their back. It was decided in a fit of giddy chatter that Nice would HAVE to pull up to Nasty’s house with Boris (an inflatable sex-doll-man) strapped in the passenger seat. When Nasty came to the window of the car, Nice would hit the play button on a tape recorder in plain sight. The tape would play what was clearly Nice’s voice trying to talk like a man. “Oh, hey, you must be Nasty. Nice to meet you, I’m Boris...” and then you would hear the static of the blank tape running. As Nasty and Nice had a bizarre fight about Boris, his tape recorded voice would blurt out random things like, “I like pears,” and “You catch the game last night?” As you can see, the three of us like to confront important issues of trust, suspicion and jealousy in the most childish way possible.

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Every time I take a vacation I try to make it a self-improvement retreat. Last year I learned how to relax in the most common way. I am a city girl. I find skyscrapers, shiny steel and concrete breathtaking and I want to scale the buildings and pound the pavement until my body collapses with exhaustion. When I am on vacation I am typically bouncing on the bed above my sleepy companion at 6am yelling, “Get up! We’ve got five days to cover an entire city! Let’s go, go, go, go, gooooooooo!!!!” And I do (go, go, go, go, goooooooo!!!!!) But last year, that was the year I learned to lounge poolside in a bikini with a Mai Tai, a book not meant for reading, and a towel over my face. It was delightful.

So I’ve just returned, this week, from a roadtrip. A vacation, I suppose. There were many reasons for it, but the most important for me was this: Courtney, you’ve got to live in this world.

I realized that for years I have been teetering on the edge of Henry Dargerdom. And for years I have suffered terrible disappointment because of my own great expectations. A chronic daydreamer, I am. A handsome man glances at me in the grocery store and by the time I’ve reached the frozen foods section I have already imagined our courtship, our engagement, our lovely wedding and Claire holding her new baby brother. By checkout we have grown old together and are sipping Mint Julips on our front porch watching the grandkids roll around on our ivy covered lawn. And fuck if I’m not almost crying, seriously, when I’m actually pulling out of the parking lot without him - my husband.

So, yes, get away. Have no expectations. Take everything at face value. No assumptions. No “intuition.” No reading too much into it. Do not expect. Do not imagine. Just don’t think about anything you can’t see, hear or touch. And I feel changed. I do. Because there was no letdown. No disappointment. Everything was as it should have been.

And life posed its first test just days after I arrived home. I met a man who took me on one of the best dates of my entire life. No kidding. And before he arrived I thought, don’t even think about what he’s going to wear. Don’t even think about anything until it’s right there in front of you. And even when he immediately asked to see my work (honestly no man has ever asked that before and I’ve always thought it to be fucking unbelievable) I passed the test. I actually passed. And, you know, this world can be really nice when you’re actually in it.

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And speaking of Henry Darger and of words I want burned into my skin and of how want and expectation can ruin you: He wrote of his stubborness (and want and expectation), I will not even stand for a snowless winter.