the phantom of the opera

told the ten year olds about subatomic particles. they understood immediately. so you mean we aren’t real? well, kind of. everything is real. but when you break it down to the subatomic level, not so much. they want to know everything. i know very little about science. never gave a fuck until my frontal lobe developed. and then i was plagued with questions that only physics could answer. all my knowledge comes from two books i read. the dancing wu li masters and the tao of physics. now im googling space. googling celestial bodies, elliptical galaxies, dark matter, space dust, supermassive black holes, the potential of white holes, the potential of life in other galaxies, andromeda galaxy, oort cloud. finding the astrophysical perspective comforting. need to feel small and insignificant. physics is like it’s own language. quantifying the indescribable. space is my religion. the bar reeks of cigars. violet invited her trade and the trade brought a friend, fat libyan guy. we bond immediately over kanye west. i tell him i love libya and that gaddafi is a hero of mine. he tells me fought in the arab spring against gaddafi. think the libyan guy is flirting with me. feeling trapped. feeling afraid. i’m really bad at ending conversations. need zb and oskar ask if anyone wants to play pool. me. even though i’m terrible at pool. everyone leaves. all thats left is me and zb and oskar playing pool and natalie and the fat libyan guy talking. i am terrible at pool. you would think i had never played the game before in my life. zb and oskar are being very patient with me. after whiffing yet another shot, zb turns to me, the corners of his mouth drawn down. he says you’re scared. why are you scared? good question, zb. what am i afraid of? been ignoring the fact that my steering wheel is getting harder and harder to turn. crashed my car into an inanimate object because i couldn’t turn my wheel fast enough and now my bumper is dragging down the street. shit. scruffy tow guy unscrews the one screw that is keeping my bumper attached to my car and puts my entire bumper inside the passenger seat. he advises me to get a tool kit if i’m going to drive a swagged out honda 2002 honda civic i need to stay ready. as if i would know what to do with a tool kit. turns out i broke the power steering pump. turns out ignoring your problems does not make them go away. and i need a new bumper. the russian man will fix my car and all will be well. till then i am stuck in purgatory, asking for rides. dreamed of wild horses, woke up disoriented at 11:30. the day is almost over. the day is valentines day. and mardi gras. who cares. it’s pouring rain. no plans except natalie and violet and i have tickets to see wuthering heights. we meet for drinks before and watch all the girls and their gay boyfriends sit on they phones across from each other. smuggle a bottle of wine into the theater. what an awful movie. as a touch starved woman, i feel disgusted and offended. this is a movie for the same people who bought the harry styles vibrator. now im feeling traumatized from that god awful cinematic experience and headachy from the wine. meeting up with zb and oskar. perhaps another drink will lighten the mood. perhaps getting my life dancing to shitty music with my friends will lighten the mood, maybe there will be valentine’s day trade. no such luck. all that’s here tonight is leftover mardi gras drunks and other losers with nowhere to be. like me. violet’s trade shows up with the fat libyan in tow. her trade buys us all tequila shots and she makes it clear to the fat libyan that i am not interested so i don’t have to. thank god. feel sort of bad for him. hate being single around other singles that i am not interested in. makes me feel like trash at the bottom of the ocean. need to get over myself. trying to get my life on the dance floor but i feel like a broken doll. we go out to the patio for some air and to cruise for a cigarette but the patio is empty and raining. figures. zb takes the little baggie of coke out of his wallet and passes it around. do a little bump against my better judgement. the last song the dj plays is army of me by bjork. we get our life. but it’s over. time to go home. alone. too weak to face my demons. laying in bed staring into the blue light. redownloading all the dating apps i had long deleted. making new profiles. swiping. good night. did not sleep well. woke up angry. deleted the apps. seething. it’s a beautiful warm sunny day yet here i am seething and moping around the house like nosferatu. throwing my bose headphones across the room in a fit of rage and breaking them. idiot!!!putting on my red scare camo hat to hide my puffy red eyes and starting out on a death march to the park. repeating this is my life this is my life this is my life until acceptance comes. a chihuahua brings a tear to my eye. mixed race athletic gay couple smiling at me brings a tear to my eye. made it to the park. laying in the field on my back squinting into the sun. palms face up. twelve deep breathes. back in the whip. rolling down all the windows and opening the sun roof and blasting ghost town by kanye west. NOTHING HURTS ANYMORE I FEEL KINDA FREEEEEEEE. violet and i drive to the mounds on president’s day. we go up to the top of monks mound and sit on the ground and look up at the sky and watch birds fly in a straight line into the clouds. the sun disappears so we walk back down. listening to white feather hawk tail deer hunter on the way to 5:30 ash wednesday mass. going to give up social media for lent including youtube reddit and pinterest and substack, inshallah. nursing a massive headache. maybe this means my third eye is opening. people watching is absolutely insane at the cathedral basilica 5:30 ash wednesday mass. love when the women wear those veils, so sick. headache making me feel like i’m on drugs. staring at the ceiling murals. looks like one of the apostles is sucking on a vape but he is just making the sign of the cross or whatever. the acoustics in here are too echoey which lends itself to the ethereal choir but not so much to understanding the words the priest utters. something about opening your hearts to jesus. mind wandering like the existential jew i am. remembering i am dust. dipping out during the eucharist. can’t stop thinking about the story of the eye by george bataille, specifically the part where they make the priest drink his own urine. discussing the thoughts we had during mass outside the basillica. about jesus and space and piousness and not letting your left hand see what your right hand is doing and the garden of leaflessness. running outside without my phone. making the racing dark miserable thoughts disappear. one foot in front of the other. life is far from perfect but the sky is turning purple and pink. at work a ten year old experiences his first cataclysmic brush with heart break. announces that he wants to kill himself. refuses to talk to any adult except me. we talk it through. i tell him this feeling will pass. and then it will return. close encounter with a gigantic hawk. birds on the ground are so much bigger than birds in the sky. what the fuck. i inch closer and closer, testing the boundaries. the hawk turns, looks me dead in the eyes and tilts its head vertically to glare at me. terrifying. straight out of a horror movie type shit. point taken, my guy. the universal sign to back the fuck up. everyone keeps stopping to snap pictures of the hawk. of course i don’t have my fucking phone. so i have to stand here and commit this moment to my eidetic memory. one of the passersby asks if i’m training the hawk probably because i’m standing so close. dream job. but no. eventually the gigantic hawk spreads its wings, dragging a dead squirrel in its talons. . been in a frightful mood all weak, dread abound. crying during the thunderous standing ovation when the phantom of the opera takes his bow. this was exactly the spectacle i needed to shake me from a week of frightful solipsistic bad moods. everything is making sense. everything is connected. dreams, mind control, existential dread, negativity, screaming, chandeliers, candles, angels, being replaced, being forgotten, being abandoned…..in a prison of your own design. life is the phantom of the opera……going to look for bald eagles in grafton. driving along the mississippi riverway. bought crystals at a woowoo shop. need to cleanse myself of the low vibrational attitude. howlite, carnelian, citrine, obsidian. spending saturday night at fast eddies bon air in alton illinois (birth place of miles davis). fast eddies bon air is one of the greatest bars in america. anyone would be lucky to have a beer here. its our waitress’s second day. a forty year old white lady in leather leggings and knee high lace up boots is preforming a cover of starships by nicki minaj. drunk people of all ages are congregating and limboing. a lady is twerking with a beer in her back pocket. a guy is rocking a fuck around and find out 1776 america shirt. old guy with diamonds dancing on his wrist and fingers, arm around his girlfriend who is rocking a crimped up do, a denim corset and no front teeth. he keeps sticking out his tongue and licking his lips. when the band takes a break, the cupid shuffle starts playing and the white lady with a beer in her back pocket mobilizes the drunk. we all start cupid shuffling together. feeling like world peace is possible, like nirvana is approaching. we cupid shuffle for what feels like forever on the patio at fast eddies bon air. scream singing along to all of the lights and pyramids and the hills in violet’s car on the ride back at grafton. head banging and thrashing like SHES WORKING AT THE PYRAMIDS TONIGHT. feeling dizzy in the hot tub, feeling too tired to shower, haven’t seen my phone since we got here. don’t give a fuck. fuck my phone. forgot about my worries completely. maybe it’s the crystals. maybe it was fast eddies. maybe it was scream singing in the car. or maybe it was the phantom of the opera.