Zombies (in love!)

Well, today I lapsed into quite an impressive little stupor. Sitting or staring or laying down for seconds or minutes or hours, as if there was othing else to be done. Driving up to Berkeley Hills to pick up a rickety bookshelf (it was free) with Adam. Noticing that by the hour, the ends of my hair were in an attempt to flip outward. Wondering what it would be like to read an elderly copy of David Copperfield in a place that vaguely resembles Tomorrowland, and wether or not the place has that old book smell yet (it is awfully hard to imagine). Moving very slowly and not thinking but not really doing and well, truthfully, not thinking very much, anyway, and reading that once infamous but now mostly forgotten (or maybe entirely unkown, depending on your level of interest or age even) Sassy interview with Kurt and Courtney in which the former talks about how being in love is invigorating yet also sort of zombifying (in that you end up caring maybe less then you should about nearly everything else), how being in love is so exciting but also, quite frankly, somewhat embarrassing. Feeling like I agree entirely but uncertain as to why this would really have to be the case. Thinking it must have something to do with the same mixed feelings of desire ad ridiculousness that arise when wanting to sit on the same side of the booth at a restaurant (but not doing so for the obvious stupidity of it), and remembering my mother recently telling me that she is always outwardly embarrassed but inwardly charmed when this happens.

Not only am I moving in slow motion, but it seems like I must be feeling in slow motion, too, and I don't quite know what else to say about this past week but this: sometimes forgiving someone is less exhausting than staying mad, and sometimes being angry is less exhausting than all of the other emotions you might feel if given the chance.

This summer is nearly over, and it really only just began. But I promise I won't sulk too much because the weather is really beautiful and an awfully nice reminder that fall is edging closer and winter always follows. This year I want to see a star show at the planetarium, carve pumpkins, buy a bike, and find a roof to sit on.

Heck, I might even make a friend in the process.

My flight for San Diego leaves in 6 hours. I'll grab a window seat for you.

Lately, My Heartbeat Seems So Conspicuous.

I have been holding my breath all morning, trying to keep from writing here because if I had written something it would have been about how queasy I am about flying to San Diego tomorrow and how I've been contemplating the pros and cons of leaving Adam to embark on this new and more suitable feeling of visiting home. It's more than just a few blocks away, and I forget that sometimes.

But now it's over and it wasn't so bad, you know? So I am seriously going to just have fun while I am out there and take in as much as I can. Honest.

Also, one of my cousins found me online and wanted to know when I would come and visit her and the rest of my baby cousins. She asked if I could bring her a book that I reccommend.

How could I possibly say no to that?

Kick The Beckett

Lately I have been thinking that I would really like a tattoo of that Samuel Beckett line I can't go on, I'll go on. Preferably somewhere fairly accessible on the body, just in case I needed to refer to it in a moment of crisis.

Sense And Sensibility

I can't remember where I first read it, but I once came across something by Virginia Woolf in which she claimed that the ideal way of recording one's progress over an extended period of time would be to read and write a personal reaction to Hamlet once a year. I remember thinking that this was a really great idea, and that I'd get around to doing it just as soon as I could figure out what to use in place of Hamlet. Not that I have anything against it - but it just didn't really seem quite right. The chosen book would have to be something I didn't love or hate, but could appreciate, could feel some sort of emotional investment in, you know?

Right now I'm giving thought to rereading Sense and Sensibility and it is making me think of the first time I read it three summers ago, foggy and convalescing on the livingroom couch, waiting for the stitches in my hand to mend so I could get back to daydreaming about college. I liked it in the same way I like Emily Dickinson's poetry, the same way I like certain old silent films that are beautiful but make you feel a bit impatient.

Now I am older and wiser but still very impatient. What is different, though, is that back then I thought Elinor was so painfully dull and stuffy, so abnormally reserved. What is the point of a heroine who lives so internally, whose heart can break so quietly that no one else hears it?

Thinking about it all this time, I am not nearly frustrated by her ability to keep dangerous emotions out of sight; really, I just sort of envy it.

It is possible that today I will purchase it, and quite possible that I will commit to writing a personal reaction.

Also: I keep finding that I've bookmarked some awfully weird sites:


The International Cemetery Postcard Museum

???

Who Is That With Jeremy?

Ice Hotel Canada