Our Lady of Benevolent Axe Murderers

There are bad things everywhere today.

Last night, or early this morning, I dreamed that I was living alone in my mother's old house. It was slightly more decrepit than when I'd lived in it, and I occupied my days by cutting, displacing, and storing parts of corpses. I packed them, freeze-dried, into cardboard boxes, as though saving them for sale. None of this affected me, even though in waking I can't watch the violent parts of movies because they bother me so much. But as this dream me, I was fairly certain that I'd killed some people, but it didn't really affect me enough to be of even a passing significance. The only halfway normal part came when my mother, stepfather, and younger sister came by to visit, and I had to stash some of the boxes under chairs and tables, and sit on a few more, for fear my ever-snooping mom would peek inside. So, yes, dramatic irony, sort of funny.

But why would I dream that? It bothered me all day.

The only conclusion to which I could come was that, since I've been running myself so hard and refusing to feel the stress, my mind was trying to let me know that I was feeling things, and that something wasn't right, and that being numb to it and ignoring it would only make it worse.

It even gave me a marvelous idea for a painting. Hence the title.

Now, however, I can't bear to work on it. Put the idea aside, might not even begin it, ever.

I was walking down Franklin, the bad five blocks to the bus stop, and one of three men passing me in a group called this out:
"Hey, how you doin'? Can I preserve you? I've got some Saran Wrap."


Since then, terrible images have flooded my brain. My skin feels taut and itchy, and my mind plays two reels at once: violence, rape and plastic wrap mixed with the more detailed shots from my dream.

I'm home alone tonight, and for the first time in a long time, Powderhorn seems like a shitty, scary place. The cement walls of my apartment feel paper-thin and not protective. The locks on my windows have never seemed rustier. All of my intelligence, all of my defensive anger seems useless, because the truth is, I am a woman, and a man could decide that he is stronger than I am, and try to prove it. And he might catch me off guard and prove me right. Because he is a man and I am a woman, he could hurt me.

That's a fear that no one should have to go to bed with.

d. says that something is going around, like something negative has infiltrated him, me, and everyone else.

I know he's right.

I just feel it too deeply to let that make me feel any less isolated and... unsafe? afraid? Neither word seems right. But that sense of security I've always felt deep down isn't there.

Fuck....