Saturday, April 29, 2006

The State Of Being Caught In Dreams

There is apparently some spam-producing e-mail program that uses random words to generate the names on the e-mail accounts it uses. These e-mails are always received with the same subject line, and they have names like, "Fluctuation V. Barbershop" and, my favorite, "Bloodthirsty H. Ninnies."

Bloodthirsty H. Ninnies!!!

In other news:

Lately, I want to wear the same outfit every day, like a uniform. I want the smell of oranges on my fingertips for company. I want to sit in a room with the lights off and the rain against the windows watching movies in technicolor. These days, nobody wants to hear stories about little boys who climb mountains with lions, about little girls searching for their fathers, lost at sea. I want to be done with the people who want to be done with me. I want the bowed legs of crickets to sing me to sleep, swaddled in the warm cocoon of a bedroom. I want to be caught in hibernation like a bear, heavy with fur, with knowing the seasons and the changes they bring. I want to be loved or to be left alone.

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Back To Bed

Last night, a series of dreams:

One where we were driving around a town near where I grew up which is locally famous for its "historic quaintness." I pointed out a one-hundred-fifty-year-old house that I sang Christmas carols at when I was a little girl. You were driving and it was snowing and I asked you to slow down and you did. Later I wondered if perhaps that is just how someone who has many years of driving experience behind him drives through the snow.

Another where you were in my actual, real life bedroom, killing spiders that were the size of a copy of David Copperfield. We listened to Cat Stevens afterwards and played chess on the livingroom floor.

And also: one in which I was looking for you at night in some sort of Manderley-esque estate, maybe even equipped with a lit candle and floor-length nightgown. What are you doing sleeping in this room? I wanted to know when I had finally found you. We snuck back to my bedroom and, well, what happened next is far too obvious to tell you.

Woke up much later than usual, feeling determined to sleep the whole rest of the day, although I didn't, at all.

I walked to the Farmer's Market for Kettlecorn and had no intentions of enjoying it in its entirety. I just haven't been feeling it. Next weekend, I reassured myself, Next weekend. Next...

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

And I Love You.

I was sitting on my mother's bed in a black skirt and hobo-green jacket, much too large for me, on the line with Ryan. It seemed like a shoddy connection and I couldn't make out all that was said (because of my sniffling and silence and terrible phone), and at some point, became preoccupied with the scent streaming off the jacket. But I got a refresher on how he says things and what it's like to be his friend. How I can imagine where the back pats would go and when he would lean forward and pull himself away.

"I want you to hold on to that."


It's funny how things are so easily dismantled. I haven't been able to talk to you very much about the things that I'd like to, but please know that I think of you every day, please know I shuffled through my catalog of pictures the other night to find the one of you watching baseball stats in shock at a Sushi bar.

It is mounted on my screen.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Wednesday, April 5, 2006

Pardon Our Mess, We're Rennovating!

Is there anything worse than a journal entry about writing journal entries? But oh, lately (lately as in the past however many months) it has been so hard to write, to find things to say, to gather together enough to make something, however small or modest. (The awful, sinking feeling of trying to sew a dress entirely out of scraps.) I used to feel so baffled and even annoyed when hearing someone declare that they couldn't keep a journal because they simply didn't have anything to say. This seemed unreasonable, impossible; clearly they just weren't trying, I thought.

But lately ("lately") this feeling of being stuck, stumped. I've been inventing all sorts of creative excuses, too - about how maybe I just don't have enough time or enough sadness (isn't it always easier to write about being unhappy about something?) or that it's hard to make yourself write things down when you're always around someone, how it's so much easier to simply make them your journal. So anyway, I guess I'm trying to say that I'm not quite sure what to do in this sort of situation other than just get through it, confess to feeling a bit clumsy and embarrassed, to start writing more again, start paying closer attention.