American Sunfish Sailboat

Chapter 12.

12.

Looking back the last few years, since my mother died, I realized that for most of the time I lived in delirium. I felt angry, disappointed, resentful, sad, disgusted at myself, tired of alcohol, desperate, hopeless and who knows what more. There are been only a few brief periods of happiness, here and there over the years. One of these was with you. I wish everything was different, I wish I could turn up one day and have some hope, a direction. I blame all the mistakes I made. I have a bad opinion of me.
me, I am sitting in a hotel without a soul, close to the giant warehouse that is packed everything I own. There is a coming and going of trucks of coal all day until night. Live in these parts hicks, everyone who travels on board a huge pick ups that can not help but gulp gasoline. They work for oil wells springing up like mushrooms. Even build them on private land, the U.S. government holds most of the rest of the rights on the extraction of minerals.
I've been here almost a week. Marianna, my friend for more than fifteen years, is experiencing ups and downs with the work at the greenhouse. He went to confine the farm that his parents, now over eighty, and bought twenty years ago. His brothers, both older, you work for or otherwise deal with things that revolve around the farm.
policy of their life is out of my way of seeing things. I'm calling out from the scene. They have eyes only for their backyard. So I'm here in my hotel. My world, the whole world is changing before my eyes.
Already this season the TV channel of weather is about to record temperatures. The forest fires, which are usually on the agenda in late summer, are already blazing. There is a Catalina Island, twenty miles from the coast of California. A pair of tornadoes have wiped whole cities, people are dying. There are few resources to deal with this, since the war in Iraq is taking away all power to the United States.
For my part, I do not take more antidepressants, occasionally only a few pastiglietta to sleep. The drinking thing is now uncommon.
I'm sorry to be a person so hard. No excuses, but let me tell you that it was not easy. Here in Amerika I slipped deeper and deeper, finding myself without even a friend. No one to blame: it's all my fault. Which brings me deeper and deeper in my black hole. More and more desperate, I have trouble sleeping. Maybe I should go back to antidepressants, but they are hesitant. Devastated and hurt.
In a hotel, in front of me the mountains still have snow in Aspen. I remember when I lived here was what made me go crazy: the summer come suddenly, for a couple of months, and then immediately the snow, sometimes even in early September.
If I could write a better car, write more. Maybe I should take some lessons. I remember my father always at the typewriter, the same two-finger style that I have, though his was much faster.
I can not decide which way to go, and why. Sometimes I think I could take the car and drive away until up to Alaska. But in the end does not seem a great idea. And in the end I always return to the starting point, solitude is born alone, meet people along the way, you die alone. I'm sorry if I hurt her.