Life is event-y. Paulie’s in Alexandria. Miss Sasha called yesterday:
S: Hi, Mommy!
S: Do you love pumpkin pie?
Me: I do.
S: Okay, bye!
I happened to be staring at a piece of pumpkin pie on a plate in front of me during this puzzling conversation. And who really knows why she called? Not I. This is pretty amusing.
On Monday, a difficult moment. An email advertised a poetry reading by Cheryl Clarke, Alicia Ostriker and Adrienne Rich in Voorhees Chapel. In April 1997, I read with them there, right before my depression caused everything to go gray, and four or five years to pass before I started to get my personality back. I haven’t written anything decent since then, and about it, I say that I died. This show was the last time anyone saw me alive. When I read the email on Monday, it was like reading my own obituary. Everyone agrees that I’m gone.
This is strange because my friends assure me I’ve been alive all along.
I’m not so sure. For instance, I wonder if I’ve overdrawn my checking account, and I believe few dead folks overspend or worry about it.
PlayGirl TV’s new commercial asks, “What’s your fantasy?” My fantasy is that my clothes fit, my bills are paid, my bathroom’s spotless and and the cat’s stuffed with delicious catfood. My brain just doesn’t don fishnets and meow on cue anymore. I’d say this was maturity but I still drive around praying to the Traffic Light Gods, “Oh please, don’t let me be the idiot trapped in this intersection when the light changes…”