Secret Pop

Oct 2, 2002

Return of the Back

Back pain, that is. I'm beginning to wonder if I have an Indian growing in my spine. Well, it's actually a little to the left of the spine. But it could still be an Indian. Are you even allowed to say that anymore? Would it be any less inflammatory to say I think I have a Native American growing in my spine? Political correctness is a topic I can't quite grasp. Well, won't, really. But you have to admit that those two words are almost exactly alike.

Ooh, coming in from outside I just got a nice big noseful of that scent I have waited for. People are using their fireplaces. And it's chilly out. And it rained today. It's perfect and delicious. The sort of weather that seduces you -- gets you to shimmy into a sweater and put on cashmere socks. When it's cool out and the wind is blowing, my nose tingles and my cheeks turn pink and I get those windy tears in my eyes. It's like standing at that viewing station beside the Golden Gate Bridge. I'm ready to surrender my dime.

October is the perfect month, if you ask me. It's badass. That's why you never see anyone dressed up as September or November for Halloween. Or even March for that matter. You wouldn't want to pick a fight with October. October will eat you for lunch and forget you while it watches the dixieland funeral parade scene from Live and Let Die. Don't ask me where I'm going with this. I have no idea. I'm actually a May girl, myself. So October can kiss it for all I care. And yet, I love this time of year. It reminds me of all the previous Octobers. So many of them were filled with smiles and promise and comfortable familiarity. It's excellent to make something new when everything around you is dying.

Speaking of dying, I was up nearly extra late last night and decided to watch Life as a House. Movies about dying make me wonder what it will be like when I die. If I will know in advance so I can go around telling everyone and seeing how they react. If I will be missed or mourned. If old friends will drop by and try and patch up ancient rifts. If the medical community will race to find a way to preserve me. Or if everyone will just start clambering for my cool belongings. Or if everyone will make fun of everything I own. Or if people will read my diaries or look at my pictures or wonder what might have happened if I had managed to keep the flame alive for just a wee bit longer. Or if people will just say I never managed to be quite thin enough.

In addition, movies with Kristin Scott-Thomas in them make me wonder if I am ugly and unrefined. Except Mission Impossible. That's not her best work.

And since I'm on a small roll, I will add that sleep comes more easily for me when I'm racing for it. I don't know if I know what that means. But I know that I sleep less when I have the freedom to sleep more. And I don't know what to do with myself as a result. But sometimes there is product for my ravings, and that makes up for some of the clumsiness. I wonder what the earthworms are up to.

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