saturday and sunday, a blur as usual, yet it seems so much happens

i remember
simei and my bed is in, the pool table with a table tennis top, dynamics between my parents fluctuating minimally around tension and daggers, shuttling between both, putting in surprises into baked goods and ice-cream, quarreling, two rolls from triple d, the three of us a trio from seven dwarfs trudging to the arts house, on your surprise whim ending up by the river with rose and surprising confessions, our trio of sistery, my real sister sending puppet strings, sitting by the bench underneath the bridge waiting, lit by orange lamplights, the whoosh of cars speeding by amplified hollowly, people passing by in both club wear and swaggers, and in running gear and serious faces. a night both precious and heavy. things can be good. awakening to sunlight underwater, around and down to the marbled floor of simei. helping to hang the paintings, chop chop, checking for defects, mopping up, measuring for table and bench and mirror and the tv closet and to squeeze the old table and the bookshelf. things going downhill. all going separate ways. the whole day on a buzzy lightness. throwing self into work, then into water, and then back to work. the lightness lifting, the buzz staying, the heaviness never gave up even after two capsules. singing to the songs playing and realizing the blocks around can probably hear. eyes wide open.