Lyyyyfe

Last night Vanessa and I talked about optimism and cynicism. Through 4 am haze she held a hand to herself and summed our conversation with, "I think I'm too optimistic to know bad. And, well, you're a cynic." Never before have I been called a cynic. It was a bit of a blow to my self-morale and I can only hope that she, who uses words loosely, did not really mean it. But in the event that she did, what can I do to assuage this? I think seeking a method to turn my potentially newfound cynicism into a joke is, in itself, optimistic. For example: I acknowledge that sitting on my ass with a jar of peanut butter while thinking about exercising is not an effective weight-loss tactic. I've thought before, and think again of writing a book, potentially pathetic and certainly trashy, much in the style of Bridget Jones' Diary but with a higher sort of intelligence, maybe, grieving all of this. How many times has Candace Bushnell done that before?

It's shitty outside. I left the apartment once today, walked down the block to Dag's and paid a hospital bills worth for two bananas, coffee, OJ, and seltzer. To elevate the pathos, my back seized up while waiting in line so then I shuffled back here, where all day I have been alternating between napping, coffee, and shuffling through papers to simulate work-doing. So this is life a la today. I'm waiting for the spring and El Sombrero's margaritas on-the-go, believing life will start again when it's warmer. With a sigh, I can say that I don't have to purposefully look for ways to liken myself to the nursing home outpatients that live in the building next door.

top chef

yo, it's dat love thang. LOVE CARLA

college pt. 2

sitting on the couch eating freeze dried banana chips. i don't know why i do this late thing, no benefits but my own time when everyone else is asleep. but i think i'm getting too old for this. i used to have valuable things to say.

in other news, my aerogarden rules.

tonight's serious debate

s old man d (not george clooney old, but walter matthau old)
or
s baby d (not baby as in small, but "newborn baby unit hospital" d)


go.



also,
pb and salsa apparently costs 10.15.

also,
i want a treehouse.

also,
stopped into the most swanckenist hotel with dann out of pure curiosity. there, the library out of beauty and the beast is a reality.

also,
last night i dreamt of a wind storm and a giant digital clock tied to the tree outside my window. all purple light and no poetry.


this is going nowhere.

i hereby claim this a word

PHONESIA (n.)- a partial or total loss of memory of information relayed over the telephone, often due to participation in simultaneous actions.

things that go unsaid

all i want is tea, orange, and comfort. ask me what i love, i love comfortable things. white beds, lavender, the sound rain makes over pavement. dancing not for the art of it but for the feeling. after-dinner coffee, the security of memory.


Self-Portrait With Red Eyes

Throughout our affair of eleven years,
disappearing into the pleasure-unto-death
acts I recall now as love and, afterward,
orbiting through the long, deep sleeps
in which memory, motor of everything,
reconstituted itself, I cared nothing about
life outside the walls of our bedroom.

The hand erasing writes the real thing,
and I am trying. I loved life and see now
this was weakness. I loved the little
births and deaths occurring in us daily.
Even the white spit on your sharp teeth
was the foam of love, saying to me: It is not true,
after all, that you were never loved.

-Henri Cole