## sometimes 050418 Sometimes I catch myself talking about your mother as if she were dead, when she’s only in the next room. I perfectionize you as a way of guarding you against my neglect, and myself against your dark side. Your sister left the kitchen, ostensibly because of the serrano pepper, but possibly also really because of your attitude. Or “energy” as the people who used to be kids say. There’s nothing wrong with you or me, except we’re not happy. What are we going to do about that? Starting out with a blatant lie is a spell, an innoculation— the rest can be assumed to be lies as well, so you can say anything you want. I don’t know about you, but as soon as something approaches perfection, I clench up and stop working on it. That means it will never be finished. But if I keep working on it, I usually fuck it up. I don’t even know what that means. It’s amazing how we maintain our separate and collective lonelinesses even while living in the same “house.” The waves, the seagulls with their faces hidden under cloaklike wings— OK I get it. My loneliness isn’t helping you any. I’ve been nursing my own wounds in a really absent way, and the illusions I’ve taped up to make this “house” seem real aren’t working for you. It’s no wonder you escape through a tiny window every chance you get. When the serrano pepper went off, and you started to cough, your sister asked from the other room, “Is she coughing in our food?” like some kind of wicked stepsister. I was afraid that if I explained that the correct question was “Are you ok?” it would just be teaching you how to fake it better. Sometimes I wonder what your mother would’ve said in this situation. But only sometimes, and then it passes.