Something to Regret

OK, so girl walks into not one, but three bars this evening. All of which hold their own mysterious pull and separate scene. Charm was given. Drinks were invented. Music was shared. Pity, solace, ulterior motives as well.

And yet, I still feel the need to document my "country western" hair, which happens at the end of the night in the summer whether I want it to or not. Drum roll, s'il vous plait:


Tomorrow, less gin and more barking. One way or another there will be a story.

Some Truths Admitted

I told Jailbait this morning that I have "too much stuff." I meant it. I have these collections of things that are taking up space. Books for days, DVDs, CDs, makeup. Pictures. Paperwork. Glassware. Jeans.

It was an apologetic statement, in a way. I think I was noticing a marked difference between the conversation we were having about Zen and our surroundings.

All twenty-five years of him looked at my bowing bookshelf and said, "You think the books contain something more that they don't contain. That they represent something. But they don't."

I just burrowed my head in his chest, knowing that part of him was right. Angry that I am such an obvious parable, maybe.

I have slowly started to weed through the book and CD storage nightmare, and have sold a few items. Most, I assume, will have to be given away. Every one is like scraping off a part of me.

I just sold The Demon by Hubert Selby Jr. I wasn't a fan of the book but intended to keep it just to prove that one could write a completely despicable, not-understandable character in an otherwise tame narrative. Scraped.

I sold Shabby Chic, a remnant from my days spent working at Pottery Barn after dropping out of college, thinking maybe that feminism hadn't allowed me room for domesticity. I've learned now that it has, but I remember discovering the part of me that liked slipcovers. Who knew? It was like a latent sexual awakening somehow— discovering the part of me that craved home. Scraped, again.

I hope that I learn to live with less. Really, why do I have the DVD's that I have? Is it because I want to see these films over and over again (and loan them to friends, most likely), or is it because I think they reflect my taste in a certain way? Isn't there a better way to do this? Is it necessary at all?

I hope that the sales at least help me to not-overdraft next month. Money is tight, food is expensive, tuition is right around the corner, and I'm taking Jailbait on dates. Oh, and I'm donating the rest of my money to the marathon. (ahem, ahem, again) It becomes realer every day.

The morning was filled with great conversation and the kind of slow chug that I love on Sundays. French press and a chat. I really need so much less than I think I do.

Angels On Rise

For some reason a very strong need came to me to write about a street lady this morning. It's the touch of the angel! It's going to rule.

Guess who's not working today! I'll be at my desk and all, but please don't ask me for anything. You know, art calls.

Endorphins are a hell of a drug.

Time To Write

Well, it's been a topsy-turvy summer so far, but there's always a story. One day I'm sure I'll tell it to you, but it's like watching reruns to tell it now. One of these days I'll get out of whatever cycle I've started for myself, but let's face it— there's three years of bad luck and missteps in my 'love life' on this blog. It's old for me, and it's old for you. I respect you too much for that.

Now that I think of it, my favorite writers weren't happy in love, either. Maybe I'm just looking for more source material. I got a copy of The Making of a Poem finally, and I think I might spend some time playing around with forms this summer. Why not? I have plenty of material. Plenty of the stuff I like to write about: my weaknesses, disappointment, the futile pursuit of that which cannot be attained. Of course, written obtusely, fractured, with just enough veneer and fiction to make it tolerable. I should also get back to the skinny bitches, though marathon training has been getting in the way. It's like taking two classes: the marathon and the novel. Focus on one too much, and the other suffers.

The other thing I failed to mention is that a week or so ago I went to a sports nutritionist who may have blown my mind with an obvious suspicion. She thinks I may have a wheat intolerance, which would be both incredibly annoying (life without pasta?) and a great relief. It's been years since my stomach has felt normal, and this might explain the crippling migraines as well. I've been trying to switch to non-wheat foods, but wheat is everywhere. Everywhere!

And I hate restriction.

Luckily, I'm in that phase right after big-bad-dumb rejection where I don't want to eat a damn thing. Except maybe ice cream. And wine.

No Rejections Lately

My mailboxes, both virtual and physical, have been oddly empty this past month. I have become used to the routine of write, rejection, resubmission, revision and I'm not sure how to handle the empty mailbox as a result.

It was actually empty today, as in no junk mail or bills or Important! Letters! to my landlord/roommate. Did the day even happen?

It may be like most things, though, where the moment I stop longing and waiting for something is the same time it shows up unannounced. This would be fine, but every day I approach my house with the same wonder...

In a month or so I'll probably be having a really tough time and getting 5 rejections a day and I'll be bitching about that instead. We can't win here.

---
Oh, and I went to Montreal. I didn't take a lot of pictures, but I like this one:


My French failed me but my energy didn't. Now if we could do something about the exchange rate, I'd go every month.