Paulie’s such a good egg. I hope he can find happiness and the life he wants.
Now, what life do I want? I still don’t know.
What will be my new art form, if not laundry or yoga? Don’t know that either.
Just so you know, I can fold a sweater so beautifully, it’d break your heart.
Mamie insisted I put this here:
In October of 2004, there was the Miracle of the Gin and Rain, and after
a time, all who had heard of it were filled with wonder, for lo, there
was a night, and the woman slept through the night, and there was no
wakefulness in the land. And the villagers rejoiced.
See, I don’t sleep well. And after my friends dragged me to On the
Border and poured martinis down my throat Tuesday night, I woke up Wednesday morning feeling pretty good. And the villagers rejoiced.
Paulie’s decided to move out. It’s sad and scary, but I don’t feel devastated. Mostly. Sometimes. I have good moments and bad moments, and anxiety’s a problem. What’s a girl to do? Aerobics, what else?
Mamie asks a good question: if you didn’t have to worry about anything, what would you do? I don’t have the answer to that one. I can’t see through the money issues, the self-doubt, the pointlessness of trying to imagine myself so free. Which is pretty alarming, or would be if I weren’t already worried about being able to keep my apartment. Right, so I’d better get on the stepper.
Back at the beginning, what would I do? I would like to be writing. It seems like a pipedream these days, and I get tangled in my inability to see the future. As Mamie says, maybe we just need rich husbands and better shoes.
It’s Friday afternoon, and I should by rights have something especially witty to say, now that someone’s taken one of my poems and translated it into Italian. I should, but I don’t; the whole thing’s pleasantly perplexing. Um, I barely remember my work, how can anyone else? Still, it’s a fact that some people do, and I feel a certain pressure to try writing again as opposed to typing which I am doing right this very minute.
The world used to seem to me to be a wide-open, never-ending adventure. Now it seems like a reason desire a nap. Fortunately, Larry (the little black cat bent on stealing your soul) agrees and sometimes naps on me. This is important to me and only me, which makes it tremendously important in the estimation of this blog because mine is the imagination at work. Such is the business of being at once a vast human being in word form and utterly insignificant, as all human lives are. The bits and fragments in our lives are gigantic. This morning, as I often do, I sensed the scent of an old flame’s skin. It’s not as if I could truly smell it. He must be at least half a mile away. The scent was vivid, the shock genuine, the emotions stung anew. And this is for one person as enormous as sky. And what does it matter, really? It doesn’t, and it’s gone now, and bombs are falling over Fallujah.
In one of my email Inboxes: someone in New Brunswick started a public art website and subscribed me to their list. I almost swallowed my tongue, I was so angry. But then, whatever. I don’t want to be Queen of the Scene. And in two hours, I can get that nap.
Having a bit of trouble with blogger again. Since I have a special relationship with the computer that’s a lot like wearing a string of magnets around my neck, I blame nobody or nothing, and wait to see what went wrong, eventually.
Last night was Trout’s birthday soiree, so we did all sorts of silly things in a restaurant in Bridgewater. The staff hovered over us, explaining everything, bringing us piles of delicious sushi. In a gas station convenience store, I found the most ridiculous centerpiece: a three-inch tall candle in the shape of a birthday cake. It was ghastly, and perfect for the occasion.
Introduced Paulie to my favorite political commentator, Miss Betty Bowers, America’s Best Christian. She’s piously wicked. She sells campaign buttons to beat the band.
Let’s see if this bit of banality gets through the ol’ post generating process.
Every so often, Miss Sasha says something riveting. In this case, about the first presidential debate:
Last night he made a fool of himself by acting cocky. A man nearly killed by a pretzel thinks that he has done such awesome stuff for this country yet he could barely form a full sentence. Yesterday I kept thinking back to when I was younger and you would stop me mid-babble and tell me to stop and start again when I could complete a thought. He would have been quiet for a week on the verbal diarrhea he had last night.
I suppose there’s no need for a DNA test, eh?
In the mail today is a video and a book about dog massage. Monday I’m going to take Ernie into Boston for an instructional session with a dog masseur named Arnold. This whole thing is starting to feel rather real, in fact quite surprising in its lack of surprisingness, only surprising in how it points up the uselessness of even bothering to fear change. For example, I always thought i.v. drug abuse, not the drugs themselves but the details of the strap and the spoon and the needle going in, was so lurid and shocking, until I shot up and found the details couldn’t have been more mundane. Like the first time I walked into a convenience store with a magnum in my pants. The gun, I mean. I wonder if it’s like that when you kill someone. Or eat someone. Or take a job in sales.
He tosses this stuff off effortlessly. Sometimes, I’m just speechless.
From the living room window, still wide open in the cool October evening, we sees trains pass through the city behind the trees. Blue sparks light up the brick buildings beyond. Or, I suppose we could see it if Paulie weren’t working at the Pentagon, Larry weren’t sleeping on the floor and I weren’t trying to figure out what I missed on last week’s American Chopper.
On Saturday, I shut the apartment door and found myself surrounded by my older neighbor’s vintage sixties modern bedroom furniture. He offered it to me. Of course, we have no room for such things – or anything, really. One more auto part and we’ll have to build a loading dock off the fire escape. I declined, mentioned Highland Park’s town-wide garage sale, and flitted off someplace. This morning, I fought a wave of panic when I opened the back door and found a big pile of Judaica books on the picnic table. There were also books on topics like nutrition and contemporary politics. These can only be the books of my neighbor, and what could cause him to put them outside like this? I didn’t know, but I did see books I could send to the workhouse and scooped them up. Tomorrow if there are more out there I’ll take them to work with me.
One of the books on the table: Robert Eisenmann’s James, the Brother of Jesus. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It’s the book I didn’t know I was looking for; I didn’t even know it existed. It’s serendipity.
Finished transcribing my column. It could be funnier, you know, if it were, ah, funny.