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.

Life is event-y. Paulie’s in Alexandria. Miss Sasha called yesterday:

S: Hi, Mommy!

Me: Hello.

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…”

I’ve been a bad blogger and avoided writing anything. I’m thinking in pictures. I wish I were a painter or had any gift with a camera. This is one of those weird thoughts I can’t seem to do anything with: I feel as if I’ve written every worthwhile thing I could in this time when words have never been cheaper.

Two friends have political blogs. Both are highly readable, well-reasoned blogs, and it’s delightful to see friends find their voices. The finding of one’s power is a joyful thing, the nurturing of it and its exercise are wonderful to behold. It’s been a long time since I felt like I possessed my own. I miss that very much.

On the other hand, I’ve gotten a lot better at living an ordinary life. I have often done that without much skill. Yesterday, Mamie and I went shopping because I’m sick of myself, my clothes, my missing Me-ness; you name it, I’m sick of it. So we went to Target. We picked up pants that come close to fitting but don’t actually fit; sweaters that will keep me warm in my over-air conditioned office but couldn’t possibly flatter my figure; and some long sleeved t-shirts I probably shouldn’t be caught dead in. Essentially, the clothes are inoffensive. The two prize purchases, however, are a long-wearing lipstick that really stays on my lips and a Crockpot. No lie. I have reached a stage of life in which the purchase of a shiny silver Crockpot gives me joy. There’s beef stew bubbling on the counter.

My feeling is I have to get back into the body. It’s worked before, when my brain stopped doing the wonderful fizzy thinking thing. We are researching yoga retreats. Maybe there’s a future for my life as an artist, but to get to it, I have to work the physique.

In movies, one sees scenes that we are conditioned to know represent time passing, and the skipping-over of time-consuming ordinary life. Unfortunately for you, you’re here with me, and someone’s put an anchor out on *this* day.

Just so you know, I accidentally accomplished a lot at work today, and most of it will wreck my co-workers’ next week. Isn’t that fun? Sure. I should put my feet up and read Miss Manners.

Paulie’s been home all week, and sick with a virus. I’ve microwaved enough chicken soup to feed all of Brighton Beach, and folded almost enough laundry to cure me of my clean clothing obsession. Almost.

Haven’t heard from Johnny in about two weeks. That’s too long. He could be floating face down in the Charles River, for all I know.

At last, some men’s springboard diving at a time I can see it. Also, my bathub’s clean, and the spare email account’s cleaned out. That last task I’d put off for over a year, so I’m truly relieved it’s done.

So anyway, today seems like marking time until something happens. I’m trying to make myself some peace and quiet but I feel the push of tasks in the offing. If we get to move, can we do it? I am uncertain I have the strength to move house, but I’d like to be moved in a we-already-did-that sense. I want grass to mow and a garden to plant. I want dirt to plant. I want herbs to water first thing every morning, and tomatoes to baby in the afternoons.

It’d be nice to be able to have parties again.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll walk over to the credit union. Another small adventure.

The Olympics are on, and I’m about as obsessed as a spectator can be without a restraining order. My family is like this about certain sports like gymnastics, track & field, and diving. Beach volleyball has been unbelievably great.

Tonight, the scoring on the parallel bars is a minefield. Heads should roll.

Paulie’s back in Glasgow. Mamie’s back from Pennsic War, where she says the weather held most of the week, then the skies opened. When things dried off a bit she pack up a day early. I was a bit relieved.

Despite the lateness of the hour on a weeknight, food smells waft in from outside. Today, I polished all the wood in our apartment I could reach, Swiffered under things, wrote a little causerie for Altrok. That’s really enough for one day.

I caught me actively avoiding blogger and blog writing. So I’m back. Miss me? Now that I’ve wrangled myself, I wonder what I can get for me on the open market.

I’m going to need a backup plan. Adrienne Rich is coming back to Rutgers. The last time I was on stage doing anything that meant something was at her reading in 1997. Ugh. I miss the Me who did that show, but not her arrogance and despair. I don’t miss being professionally tragic. Even then, it was too late, I think. I was already on my way here.

When I started feeling better I got busy and failed to blog. Apologies, PoorImpulsives!

Now, if only I had something to say…

Ever get sick of yourself? I’m sick of myself. I’m mulling over important little things like whether or not I should call myself an artist anymore. Between that and my inability to shut off my mind at night, I can’t sleep.

Wouldn’t it be nice to suddenly get some control over my brain?

Does this publish? It does! The last two I wrote evaporated into the ether.

Paulie’s back from Madrid with great stories. He loved this trip, which differs from the last few. Yippee!

Joe Vs. the Volcano is on in the living room. In the kitchen, beef stew simmers. Larry, a small black cat bent on stealing your soul, sleeps on the floor. Outside, a light rain falls on foggy New Brunswick. I should do four loads of laundry but I feel languid and have a hard time caring, just at the moment.

It’s a really nice afternoon.