"Isn't that right, Kilty McBagpipes?"

Oh, I've been terribly industrious. In the span of a day that started with a bit of a hangover and only a couple of hours of sleep, I still managed to plunder the local grocery stores for Cadbury Mini Eggs before Easter takes flight, enjoy Japanese food and snowbubbles, marvel that I get asked out in the unlikeliest of places, ruminate on the importance of a well-mannered upbringing, do a spot of work, unpack the last of my kitchen wares, make dutiful use of the trash receptacles out back, tidy up like a pro, deflate an air mattress, experience indecision about the persisting edibility of a bit of leftover Chinese noodles, mop the floors, rearrange my bookcases, spy a bit of TV, bathe, hang a kitchen shelf, hang a brass Ganesha, dust, stack old-fashioned board games, discard unwanted unmentionables, and disapprove of Jay Leno. Not necessarily in that order.

I've been a busy, busy girl. Who deserves sleep more than I do?

What am I? 18 again?

What a night. Too much to drink in too many places with too many obligations looming on the morrow. I'm likely to look very, very tired when I show up at the office in the morning. I saw the guy who played Noah on The Sopranos talking to someone outside of Max's tonight. What a haven for HBO celebrities my neighborhood is. I didn't see anyone at Tahiti or Formosa Cafe or Canter's, but by then I wasn't looking.

Note: this entry is devoid of brilliance.

Digital cable is a foul temptress

Well, of course I'll never go to sleep. Not when Paris When It Sizzles is playing. And then whatever comes on after that.

I'm not the man I think I am

My dirty martini at the Sunset Trocadero Lounge was so strong and vile and tasting of lighter fluid, I couldn't even eat the olives in it. And afterwards, there was no gelato to be had. I am not in favor of restaurants being closed on Mondays. I am very likely to want something on a Monday. What am I supposed to do in that event?

I have been feeling things at a distance. As if my experiences are being relayed to me in braille. As if I am recording them at arm's length and only with the very tips of my fingers. And gingerly. I remember once hiding in my mother's closet, amongst dresses and suits and fur coats. I remember feeling fur and fabric all over me, pressed against my face, tangled in my hair, embracing me from shoulder to shin. I remember thinking how very like The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe it all was. Is it possible to feel things in that fashion when the unguardedness of youth and inexperience has been put away for good? I have a feeling that it is caution that keeps me from feeling things that are waiting to be felt. But if I am ever to paint this canvas properly, I will need to address it with bold strokes. With self-assurance. With forthrightness. If I am ever to create anything, I may have to get my hands dirty. Fortunately, I believe in soap and a great deal of washing up. But that's for after.

"Child soldiers to swap guns for PCs"

I'm not going to make a habit of cutting and pasting unusual headlines for sport. But this one seemed worthy of a few keystrokes. It's an article from the BBC that says Sierra Leone wants to compete with India as a source for low-cost technology development. I'm sure that arming gun-toting, teenage mercenaries with Pentium power is a healthy place to start. At the very least, they can start catching up with the rest of the world on logged Pac-Man hours.

"Their son Peregrine is at boarding school."

Julian Fellowes has a son named Peregrine. What's that about?

Whirr, click, buzz and low-flying birds of prey

I did almost everything I was supposed to this weekend. Much to my chagrin, I did not win an Oscar. But I'm trying to be gracious about it.

The rain sounds like marching

I am still and cold. Shows were good. Friends were good. Not enough food. Too much cold medicine. My thoughts are coming in pieces. Something is burning in me. When I am a tower of strength, I am not.

I remember exactly where I was a year ago. At the time, I didn't know all that I was on the cusp of. I hope that the same is true today. I would like to be surprised by what the coming days hold for me. I would like to be delighted. These past twelve months give me reason to insist that I deserve to be.

I miss looking forward to the sound of certain voices.

I hope it isn't raining in the morning. I have running to do. I imagine myself running forever, off into the distance without looking back. I will be running to rid myself of things. And I will be running to catch up with my sanity. Wish me luck.

"Days go passing into years. Years go passing day by day."

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the child in my face. I remember being an eager youngster with ribbons in her hair and rainbow-colored shoelaces. As important as everything seemed back then, none of it persists. The Duran Duran posters. The eraser collection. The puffy yellow and white checked pajamas. The book of fractal patterns I used to color with markers. How will I teach my one day children to savor their youth? When I feel as if I raced through mine without stopping to take a breath.

I visited the Musei Vaticani with my parents and my younger sister once on an Easter weekend. Beulah and I raced on ahead of my parents, intent on seeing the Sistine Chapel and then getting on with our day. We had no idea how many galleries we would go coursing through. An endless parade of room after room -- many with painted ceilings -- but none of them the Sistine Chapel. We never even stopped to look and see what else there was. And by the time we got to the Sistine Chapel, it was sort of a disappointment. Just another painted ceiling, but this one atop a room swarming with people and their human smell. We left a bit disenchanted and took a bit more time going through the remaining galleries. Stopping to look at the modern pieces and feel that sensation you feel when you realize this is a REAL painting by the REAL painter. A Dali. A Miro. Whatever it might be.

We got to the end and waited. And waited. And waited. And began to wonder if my parents had mistakenly left us behind. But my father was just taking his time. He has this way -- particularly in museums -- of looking at EVERYTHING. I once watched him stand in front of a large placard -- all written in Italian -- in a museum in Naples. And he stood there until he'd apparently read every word. Even though he does not speak Italian. That's just the way my father is. He takes stock of things. He pays very close attention. He reads newspapers cover to cover. He reads the instruction manual. Ask him to tell you the story of how he earned a medal in Vietnam for reading an instruction manual. It's a marvelous tale.

So he moves more slowly than I do, my father. But I'm certain that he sees more, as well. And I wonder if there isn't a huge portion of wisdom to that. I'm whipping from place to place at breakneck speeds, but am I ever really in one place? Am I ever there long enough to absorb any of it? Can I make memories if I never stand still? I'm not content to just do more than most. I want to also feel more. Experience more. Retain more. Share more. I want to take more away from the day than my paycheck. I want to take more away from the world than a few smart pictures.

Even now, my mind is racing. I flit past ideas and lose them and realize I've lost them and bemoan the fact of it. And sometimes I can trace back through my experiences of the past few seconds and recapture the inspiration. Other times not. I'm always on to the next thing. It was like that in my younger life. A teenage girl waiting for her chance to break out of where she was and into what comes next. It's habit-forming. A habit that has often kept me from ever being anywhere but in my own projection of what is to come. I have thought about seeking out clarity through some form of meditation. But when I settle in and try to distill my thoughts down to one single thing, I find myself saying, "Ow."

Which leads me to my next non sequitur. (Child am I of disorganized thinking.) I like that so many languages have unique words for the expression of sudden and surprising pain. There are corrolaries in Chinese and Japanese and plenty of other languages for our "ow" and "ouch" and "!@#$%!" to name only a few. There are pause words. There are words that serve all sorts of uncanny purposes. Language is a fascinating thing. Isn't it?

So maybe my original point was that time passes quickly and there is no need to hurry it. And sometimes parents are right. And you shouldn't run through the Musei Vaticani. Italy is a foreign country, after all. If you fall and hurt yourself, the insurance paperwork would be a nightmare.

"Even when you're feeling warm, the temperature could drop away..."

Climates have been unpredictable. I have been caught off-guard by sudden chills. I have been dismayed to be wearing wool when the mercury begins rising. I have felt the cells in me being flooded with rhythm. I have felt them go flat and sedentary. From second to second.

"You can tell a man from what he has to say..."

I am a creature in conflict. I seek out obligations and then loathe that they lie in wait for me. I crave company and cherish solitude. I drink both red wines and white. I watch cartoons and science fiction and I read literary criticism. I write poetry and eat Mars Bars. I can open a bag of potato chips and eat just one. I love the warmth of sun and the smell of rain. I cook with garlic.

"It doesn't pay to make predictions..."

It's easy to see how sinus congestion can be mistaken for dissatisfaction with life. When I feel the pain behind my eyes and have that burning scent in my nostrils, I tell myself there is no value in anything. And then I take a pretty-colored liqui-cap and wait for the onset of the high. It feels like taking a bath in 7-Up. Which doesn't sound like a bad idea.

"Finding out wherever there is comfort there is pain..."

I need to hang things on the walls. Make this place mine. Open windows where there are none. Stimulate. Inspire. Remind. Relive. I need to spend more time in the parts of my mind that are dimly lit and unwelcoming. I have a feeling I have left a lot of important things there. As with moving, I expect to unearth surprises and reminiscences. When you move, you lose things. You find things. You let go of things. You hang on to things. You make choices about what's important. And sometimes you regret the things you threw away in previous moves. Sentiment is enigmatic. It needn't reside in a corrugated box. But it often does.

"Only one step away..."

Stormy weather and unbearable calm. I have seen little of March's lion. Even less of her lamb. I have seen the spoiling effects of Southern California living. Days that seem to fold into each other because of persistent beauty that goes unnoticed and unmeasured. Impossibly beautiful moments that don't linger because they are indistinguishable from those that follow. It is beautiful here much of the time. So beautiful that I have to look at ugliness every now and then just to remind myself of the contrast. When I lived in Guam, I once played the part of a preening princess whose selfish ways could only be softened by the humanizing effects of candy. Today, I'm eating Cadbury Mini Eggs and wondering whether they're changing me in some fashion. They don't seem to be. But such changes are likely to be subtle. After all, everything is chemistry. We are just electromagnetic energy sparking in an organic soup. It is entirely possible that chocolate might be capable of effecting powerful changes in my soul. How does memory persist anyway? Some physiological imprint? A groove? A whorl? A mark on the surface of a moment. I haven't eaten enough madeleines to follow after Proust. But I imagine a key awaits me. Something that will unlock the vault of memory and engulf me in electricity and impulse and energy.

I used to wait my turn to swing on the monkey bars. I used to check out a tetherball and curse the sound of the bell. I used to play just like all the other kids.

Mood Indigo

Wilshire Boulevard is like a Monopoly game to me. I watch the billboards change like Community Chest and Chance cards being turned over and I wonder who owns what plot and how much it will cost me to stop for a while. In the building with the blue-tinted windows, someone else is daydreaming, too. I think I will be the top hat today. I'm not feeling the part of the wheelbarrow. And I refuse to ever be the thimble.

"What I wouldn't give to have your weasel genes."

I don't think there is a fair and honest way to get anything anymore.

On the up side, I smell unbelievably delicious.

The cruelest thing since they shot Babar's mother

So many things I didn't get to do today. So many chances missed. So many hours squandered. At this rate, I will never own a homemade tattoo gun.

I get no kick from champagne

We drank asti spumante in my house. Look down your noses at me if you will, wine snobs.

I would drink champagne. But I seldom have cause to. And much of the champagne I have been served on recent occasions has had an unpleasant yeasty smell. The sort of thing that promises a headache. Well, I guess you shouldn't ever plan to drink the champagne that comes with the limo. It just comes in a champagne-shaped bottle and has a label with a name that pretends to be something fancy. Like Moet et Champion. Or Perrier Joulet. It could just as easily be bubble bath.

But I do like the sound of the cork being popped. And I do like golden beverages that effervesce in the glass. And I do like having cause for celebration. Even when there will be headaches afterward.

It may as well be Christmas

I wake. Unable to sleep. With the giddiness of anticipation. The ill-at-ease of promised wonder. The Goldilocks-caliber dissatisfaction in the weight of my covers. The cat-caliber curiosity for getting up and at 'em. I am itching. Where my skin yearns for touch. Where my secrets seek chastisement. Where my shame hides.

I have fingernails, so I scratch.

Tropic of Cold Medicine

I will wish me away to a far off place where there are leafy banana treas and little grass shacks and drinks with coconut in them and drinks without so much coconut. I am in a torchlit mood.

At 11:16 A.M. today, it became spring.

This photo was not taken tonight.

Culinary is the worst kind of guessing

This happens to me. You're at a restaurant and you see someone enjoying a dish that looks right up your alley. You look over the menu and -- by way of your powers of deductive reasoning -- you determine which menu item it is and assure yourself that you will order that thing when you come back the next time. But when you next dine, you order the item you thought it was, and it turns out to be something entirely -- and disappointingly -- different. And you carefully go over the menu and still think that there is nothing else it could possibly be. And it occurs to you that you observed someone who has a special relationship with the chef and can order something that isn't on the menu at all. This is more prone to happen in a Chinese restaurant, I find.

West Lake Beef Soup, my eye.

Tingly restlessness

A pseudoephedrine-induced high keeps my feet from touching the ground today. And my guts from touching my ribs. I'm in a goosebumpy chill with cold fingers and a ticklish crawly sensation all over my skin. I wish I hadn't had to come to work, but I'm glad I'm here. I feel a burst of productivity coming on. Followed perhaps by lunch.

It's just an artifact of the lighting, but I look like a freak in this picture. The eyes. Black oil? How I would look if my eyes were milky blue? Something. Freakish, but I like it. It seems to me I would make a rather nice vampire.

Is it just me, or is Orange Blossom Special kind of a stupid song?

"This looks familiar. Vaguely familiar..."

Tingly sleeplessness and a strange sense of urgency for the passage of time -- or the halting of it. I know this. I've been here. I wonder if it is entirely pharmacological.

Time is marked differently for me now. Milestones take shape in my memory for different reasons. Immediacy has been redefined. As has protraction. I feel each moment stretching and squeezing. Pinching and punching. Is it distortion? Or a lapse of perception? Or is it just the way time moves through me when I'm not looking?

It has occurred to me to be less concerned with getting THROUGH and more concerned with getting ON.

Rats

I think I'm getting sick again. Well, my candle hasn't just been burning at both ends. It's been fairly engulfed in hellfire. I suppose it serves me right.

I can congratulate myself, though, for cooking a great meal tonight and for having enough Alka-Seltzer Cold and Cough in the medicine cabinet to nudge myself along. Good for me.

"She got married in a cornfield in 1967 and named her daughter America."

Someday, I will write something good. But I wonder how much of it will be brazenly lifted from the statements of everyone else I know who has something more interesting to say than I do.

It may not sound like a good idea, but corn bread tastes good with coffee. At least it does this morning.

"I made you."

Bobby Hill tells it like it is. Just like I told it years ago. I've always been ahead of my time.

Creepy.

Space tourists

This is an article I found interesting. Space tourist vehicle unveiled in Russia. In the same issue was a curious discovery that rejection decreases the IQ. The world is not a fair place, but happily you can ride off its face into the cold of space in your new Cosmopolis 21. Thank you, Mother Russia.

"They're making a movie in Sevaglio."

Film crews and equipment obstructed my path to work this morning. It looked as if they were filming something in a ramshackle little manicure shop in that stretch of Little Ethiopia on Fairfax. I'll wager it isn't a period piece.

Weekend Bullets

When you're driving home at 6:15 A.M., you actually see the sun in the east. Even when you're bleary-eyed and afraid to catch your own reflection in the rearview mirror. It's been a long time since I saw the sun in that spot while driving anywhere. I'm glad I'm making new memories.

When you don't go to sleep until 7 A.M., it's hard to wake up before lunch. And even harder to make productive use of what little daylight is left

There is something funny about shredded wheat being used as a measuring device. But you had to be there.

There was a roundish old man carrying a bag of something. When I ran past him, I caught the scent of his perfume. It was nice.

My parents love slapstick comedy.

Everyone loves the girl who brings the crudité platter.

I can still sing relatively high notes.

I can still run a few miles and feel like a champ.

There are a few people left in the world who like me. But it seems their numbers are dwindling.

"I'm feeling more alone than I ever have before."

Me and my patchwork song lyric pull quotes.

"I feel it now. I hope you feel it, too."

I am something that approximates free today. Like a great weight has been lifted from me. I fully expect it to be lowered back onto me as soon as I straighten out my posture and begin stretching my arms. But in the meantime, I feel as if I am floating. The sky is so clear. Dollops of clouds sit above the Hollywood Hills. They look as they did to me when I was driving up to this office on that first day of October. I said then -- as I do now -- that they look like Simpsons clouds. And they do.

My desk is golden, with long shadows running across it. Brilliant sunlight. Severed light in prisms above my keyboard. And I can see my reflection in the window. And I feel as if I am beginning to look like myself again. I was afraid I might have lost that altogether.

Maybe Jo was right. Maybe it was the phase of the moon.

The green looks different today. I see trees that are the color of ripe peas. And sherbet-colored houses and out-of-place turrets on Angle-inspired apartment buildings. There are a million shades of green in the trees today.

The flowering plant on my window ledge is thriving. I will pretend not to know that it is artificial.

"Et tu, Brute?"

I'm not afraid of the Ides of March. Bring it on. I'm unstoppable today. Confident conqueror. Violin-playing vanquisher. Asinine alliterator. Winner.

"Monkey moves cursor by thinking"

That was an actual headline on Salon.com today. Am I living in some futuristic simian paradise? It's as if all of my dreams -- telepathy, robotics, and chimpanzees -- suddenly decided to band together and come true! I think the point of the article was actually about giving aid in movement back to those who are paralyzed. Which means Superman may walk again. I'll admit that was not one of my dreams, but I'm not against it.

Today's Salon also featured the following subhead: "A brilliant biologist's embarrassing new memoir reveals that even with a Nobel prize under his belt, a 24-year-old geek finds it hard to get laid." And something about Andrea Yates.

Dare to disappoint!

Am I actually carrying the world around in my handbag? If I go by the way my neck and shoulders feel, I'd say yes. I am in need of a good massage. And that coma I've been talking about.

Dusky

The sun is going down. On many things.

American Beauty

It's so windy outside today. I just saw an empty plastic bag soaring high into the air, being carried south past 12th floor windows. It looked like fun.

Word of the Day

indomitable \in-DOM-ih-tuh-buhl\, adjective:
Incapable of being subdued or overcome; unconquerable.

I am what I am. You are what you drink.

Nothing is easy anymore. Not in my estimation. Not for me anyway. Nothing is ever easy. I tell myself it used to be, but I'm probably lying.

Jo says I'm tired because of the phases of the moon.

I got a great deal done today. And I felt charged up at times. But overall, I am so drained, and I see the exhaustion on my face. It's disheartening.

The sky outside is pale blue-grey with clouds that look like hazy pink cracks. It reminds me of the fake sky ceiling in the shopping area at Caesar's Palace. It's always just before dusk there. And there is the sound of running water and foot traffic.

So, I listen to Muppet songs and try to decide how much longer to sit at my desk. It will be tomorrow soon, won't it?

"This is not a weather segment. This is just a look at some maps that have weather on them."

Maybe I was just a snob before. Maybe I was overcome by my predisposition towards disliking broadcasters. But I've only recently discovered that Al Roker is occasionally amusing.

They change the art at Max's constantly!

I was paid a number of fine compliments tonight. "Atoms move more quickly around you." And then in response to my statement that I'm not from L.A.: "You're so not from any city." I'm fond of a compliment at any hour of the day, but these were particularly memorable.

And a pair of friendly fellows admired my hair and asked me if my lovers get tangled up in it, and I laughed and said I'm just amused by this notion of a world in which I have this mess of lovers to contend with. They laughed, too. I would have liked to talk with them at length. I'm sure of it. A guy in the elevator at my office tonight also commented on the length of my hair, but I didn't get the sense that I would have enjoyed talking with him at all.

What else. They finally fixed the air conditioning vent in my office. I am looking forward to being able to wear tops with sleeves on them again. Alex and I had a fine exchange about Middle Earth. I discovered that he eats scary kinds of cheeses and that we both would like to live in The Shire. Although I would rather be an elf than a hobbit. I just like the idea of having a round door. And we are both keen on second breakfast.

People wait outside of Cafe Largo and press their ears to the glass to hear what's going on inside when the comedy show is sold out. I have never seen such an absurd thing.

I made Adam laugh when I told him the made-up anecdote I told about Jo in the limo at the bachelorette party. That's always gratifying.

And when I was driving down Fairfax on my way home, I saw a man working on the road with a lit blowtorch waving around in the air as I drove past. It was strangely beautiful, and I promised myself I would remember it.

The unburningest log in the world still sits -- half-charred -- in my fireplace.

I wish I had eaten a hamburger tonight. Instead I had eggs.

  

The Borg Queen's got a plan.

I once had a dog named Mitzi. She was a keeshond. And she would always get excited and start peeing all over the place. She had a sweet furry face and a tail she wagged with such enthusiasm that her whole back half would wag with it. I brought her home on the Fourth of July. She was never really my dog, I suppose. My parents adopted her. I lived in an apartment and couldn't have a dog. But I had her in my car for a while.

Later that day, I drove to Vegas.

"Always Sunday"

It begins.

I have felt my skin tingle in the heat of many fireplaces. Tonight, I swelter and shiver. Tonight, I tingle.

"I did not miss you much. I did not suffer. What did not kill me just made me tougher."

I only heard the second half of that lyric when I heard it last night, and I thought it said, "What did not kill me just made me suffer." And I would have wanted to write that down. But it turns out I misheard it. Typical.

Sweet Justice

Sarah and I saw Angie Everhart at Nate-n-Al's today when we were having lunch. And she was checking US out. There.

Harry Belafonte sings Hava Nagila

So, Jo and Sean are married. Yesterday was an ordeal for me, but it also held moments of great fun and excitement and relief. I was happy to be there and happy for them.

And I caught the bouquet. That was a first for me.

Snap. Crackle. Burn the house down.


I felt lousy today, but the day itself was good. And tomorrow promises to be festive and hectic and everything else it could possibly be. I'll face it as best as I can.

"Do you ever get the feeling that the world is passing you by?"

I am surrounded by the hopes and expectations that I create and ignore. It's time to start picking things back up again.

Oh, yeah.

I almost forgot. Last night, in the extra wee hours when I usually tell myself it's time to go to sleep if only for the sake of staying alive, I was watching this ultra-keen episode of Walt Disney Presents about Mars and life on it. I have never wanted to live in a pressurized city more. I hope there will be a place in my future that is as colorful and grand. I am also fond of compartmentalization. I liked making blanket and pillow forts with our coffee table and our couch. And I remember being charmed when watching a news program that showed a newfangled Japanese "hotel" where businessmen were basically renting a space the size and orientation of a morgue drawer in which to sleep and watch television. I like defined spaces. I like the feeling of it being mine. I like privacy. And I like being able to keep my eye on all four corners.

If I ever do get to live on Mars, I hope the street names won't be stupid.

"Nano."

I feel as if I have been old for so long. And now I am...youthening? Time rolls backward. Your hair gets in your face. A fixed expression of concern fades into careless laughter. You reach for the onion rings, no longer worried if everyone else has had their fair share. Who cares what's fair. And you think about wearing roller skates. The kind with four wheels and a toe stop. And you argue about where the best pizza is. And the best hot dog. And you stop thinking about what time it is. It seems later than it is, but it makes no difference. You catch yourself looking around more. Seeing more. Making more eye contact. You catch yourself wondering things. You catch yourself judging. And the night envelops you like a thick blanket of drizzle and rain smell and shiny asphalt. Like a big thick blanket you clutch around you -- the way you might if you were out in the mountains camping and you needed to get up for something in the middle of the night.

You think about camping in winter. You think about plans you once made. You think about opportunities you missed. And you shrug. And you tell yourself it doesn't matter. The thought, "I have plenty of time," doesn't even bother to occur to you. It's irrelevant. You work hard. You sigh. You stretch. You make things nice for everyone. You plan for giddiness. You forget to write things in your calendar. You dismiss grudges. You lose track of them. You stop asking why.

You have steaks in your freezer and eggs in your fridge. You're set.

A brush with near-celebrity

I went out with some office mates tonight and had beers and the Lakers at a local Irish pub. Chris Farley's brother was there. I saw him standing in such a way as to bar the entrance to the ladies' room. A clever trick.

And the fog rolled in

The sky is white. The streets are dark with moisture. There is weather upon us.

I feel somewhat grey myself today. Grey and gloomy and worn around the edges. Whether it's sprinkling or dumping buckets on my bowed head, I love the rain. And at the same time, I can't stand it.

Today is my mother's birthday. I hope she is being shown a nice time.

"I've got an open mind so why don't you all get inside..."

The weekend was long. Full. Interesting. I feel thoroughly drained. But the advantage to that is that I am ready as ever to be filled back up again.

In like a lion

Last year, in the month of March, I went to see a poetry reading by a guy called Tim Gibbard. I had had dinner at my sister's house and was planning to meet someone later. That never happened.

The poetry reading was at Claire de Lune in North Park. It was the first time I'd been there. I saw a notice in The Reader about a poetry reading that sounded interesting, and I was in the habit -- at the time -- of concocting agendas for myself and attempting to go out and do more and see more and spend less time on my sullen couch in front of a television with nothing playing on it. It was a Tuesday night, wasn't it? And the featured performer was Tim Gibbard. And I had no idea who he was. But I went just the same.

Tim Gibbard was British and tall and bald and frenzied. And I loved watching him and listening to him. And I was annoyed by the number of high-schoolers taking up space, chit-chatting and writing in their slam books. I bought his book. He signed it for me, "To Mary, My 1st Fan." Here are some things he read that night:

The Ruby Slippers So I retreated to my room, I couldn't stand to talk to watch. I found the cracks widening, the darkness welling like smoke to choke me, thick and sticking, blinding and hot. From the earliest memories of swapping lines, the smell of warmth, mutual comforts, to this, so shallow, so fleeting. An outstretched hand so shaken and forgotten. The memories of the depths we reached inscribed in the tracks of an outstretched arm. Grown purple now: the bruising incisions where I let you in each day. All day, every day, day in day out, by the week, by the month, by the years that built us like giants, twinning us like pillars, strength and knowledge, humour and pathos, sweetness and sorrow. Now parted we have become the furthest points of a right triangle. The square of our hypotheses, an immeasurable value, holding us at the perfect distance for forgetfulness. At odds, me becoming the sea against your mountain, you the road that leads from my door. We will never return to Narnia, lamplight on snow. We have become our own wardrobe, the doors always opening away. The darkness at our backs, the depth of our time together, an uninhibited place, a collection of furs and damp overcoats shared and exchanged, now sickening and blue. The pale blue of envy, distrust and sorrow, misunderstood loyalties and the backtracking of beliefs. It is the smell of a sour autumn, too long gestated and never wholly aired, left to hang in a clear winter sky. Take the blessing, it really is time for you to go. Just think and you'll be there, at a speed unattainable in our lives. Just think and you will be there, where you want, there, where you need, there, where you can sleep soundly, there, a place where you are happy, a place where I do not live. There; a place where I could only ever be, the jester, the confidant's fool, the privy listener. There; where you are the dealer to my addict, the smiling priest to my rabbi, the slowly withdrawing thorn from my heart. There; where I would always be the Siamese brother to the Surgeon General. We are half-clasped hands, gritting our teeth against the cyclone that tears at our palms. You are right and if I grow to understand, we will once more take flight like birds of a nest but for now I am lost and if one day perhaps you grew to understand, you would come looking for me. You would come looking for me because I am lost. You would come looking for me because I am lost. Lost to you and you need me and perhaps if I am lucky, if I am very, very lucky, you will find me. Ash It was only an old blue summer dress; white flowers small and pretty but I kept it to remind me of the night I fell in love with you. When, as if from the lips of gods, I heard the thunder call your name, the lightning that showered you, your image burning in my eyes. The rain that soaked the cotton, clinging to your skin, as you have clung to me. The torrid sweat that ran between us, a flooded sidewalk at our feet. Just one kiss was all we needed, one kiss we could both believe in. One kiss that would let us know that somehow this was meant to be. The one kiss I could not leave without stealing on that early mroning when my departure swept away the distances between our lives. And when we were far apart, the eloquence of letters brought me close enough to touch you, when we didn't know the words to use. Then of our second meeting, how we fumbled it like children and the tenderness of your touch when we learnt we didn't need to speak. And your flight into my arms when we had already said goodbye, that night of chasing constellations, wishing on the stars And of the day that I asked you and the day you said yes to me, the nights that we made love as if we knew the dawn would break the spell. Only an old blue summer dress, white flowers, small and pretty but I kept it to remind me of how the seasons come and go And the day that you decided that you didn't want it anymore and left it, like abandoned poems, in some dark and dusty room, was the very day on which I learnt forever is a lonely place. No message, in an empty bottle, lost upon the sea And how I was such a fool, when you said we could be lovers because I thought of rivers walked and games beneath the moon and so I just cloed my eyes to my own crucifixion, while your passioned breath was calling for, another sun to rise. Only an old blue summer dress, white flowers, small and pretty but I kept it to remind me ov every day that ever dawns And every drop of rain that ever falls to make the deserts bloom, now falls upon my hopes and dreas, the fragile times we found together But it will Never quench the flames that burn in my heart, turning memories to ashes, cast into the winds that sweep across your land And sometimes if you will wonder why the future doesn't seem so bright, then maybe you're remembering how our gardens used to grow and you will stare into the distance, see the smoke on the horizon and tiny blackened petals will bring a tear to your eye Because Burning, like the memory of the night I fell in love with you, that old blue summer dress will match the fires in the sky.

I was wearing new boots that I had bought several months previously and was thrilled to wear. I was wearing anticipation. Urgency. I was wearing a blue shirt with velvet and lace and interesting prints on it. I was wearing the knowledge that it was time to give up and go home.

He was a cool guy, this Tim Gibbard. If you ever have the chance to hear him perform, you should hop on it.

Last call for February

I am stunned by the passage of time. Dismayed by it. Overwhelmed. The days are just falling away, drifting off and out of reach. This time last year, I would never have believed that it would be possible to be here in this time this year. And maybe I say the same thing to myself now about the next year and the next one after that. But there is no need for such a vast stretch of anticipation. There is no need to make predictions or promises or resolutions of any sort. I'm not shooting for anything. I'm just pushing forward. And trying to keep my focus on what lies ahead. You've got to look in the rearview mirror every once in a while, but you can't keep your eyes locked on it.

What was that I said about metaphors?

An elephant never...what is it again?

If there was a superhero whose superpower was memory, it would be me. And I would wear a very flattering black unitard and high-heeled black boots. And a very subtle "M" would be embroidered on my cape. Which would also be black.

I was updating my poetry page, and I was startled by how immediate and detailed my memories were of where I was and what I was feeling at the time I wrote each line. I could literally feel myself sitting in my bedroom -- upstairs at my parents' house when I was renting it from them -- thinking about the moon and the solitude of the night. I remembered jotting off hasty rhymes from my pale grey office. I remembered every iota. To the point where I could experience it all again. Even the struggle for the rhymes and the meter and the meaning. I remember more than most people. But I don't do so very much with the memories. Do I learn from them? Do they add to me in some way? Sometimes, they are like the old college textbooks you hang onto because they are thick and heavy and they were expensive and you never bothered to try and sell them back. They sit on your bookshelf, gathering dust, causing the particle board to sag in an unsightly manner. And you never look at them. You never open them to find the little scraps of paper you accidentally left between the pages. You never refer back to the sections you highlighted and were very careful to detail with your notes and thoughts and impressions. They are archival copies of things that once mattered. But they don't get much use, and they take up a lot of space.

I remember once promising myself I wouldn't get so carried away with metaphor.

"Wisdom is the province of the aged. But the heart of a child is pure."

I've a great deal to learn. And a great many more flavors of gelato to try.

Dra to the ma

My office is too hot. My burden is too great. My pants are wrinkled from sitting. My arms are covered in goose bumps. It's time to begin again.

I don't want to go to bed. But I want this to day to be over.

Pain. Pain. You know your name.

Who would have thought that hurt could be decanted and revisited again and again only to find its bouquet sharpened, its pungence heightened, its deleterious effects made more acute. Realizations are a funny thing. One finds something out, and it is as if the revelation changes everything. When it changes nothing, in fact. History isn't rewritten. Ever. It is what it is. It is as it was.

I had a wonderful, spiritual, and thoroughly uplifting evening, despite the lobbing of barbs at my tender heart. I am glad to be able to see beyond things that cut to the very core of me. I am relieved.

But sometimes it seems as if joy is a mere distraction from sorrow. That pleasure is only a vacation from pain. I value permanence. I seek solid things. Things that can be counted on. Things that will see me through. I have not had such steadfastness for a long time. And I have recently begun to feel its absence more palpably than ever before. I was once a little ray of sunshine. The apple of my father's eye. The smilingest girl with the pinkest, roundest cheeks and the greatest affinity for joy and laughter and forgetting of all things unpleasant. The sweet little cherub who couldn't hold a grudge. Even when she tried. I was once a soft, sweet, eager thing. I was once less vulnerable. Made impervious to disappointment by my very naïveté. I once believed in many things.

I no longer know what I believe. Nor what I expect. I only know that I have been wronged a good many times. And I have heard apologies in far fewer numbers. I must seek out another means of achieving balance.

  

 

Tijuana Taxi

Border crossing is not for the faint of heart -- or for those in any sort of a hurry.

After collecting assorted Chinese delicacies for dinner tonight, my sister and I took note of the fact that we are very lucky to be Chinese. The joys of a cuisine and a culture that are so foreign to so many -- they are ours. Things that are delicious, things that are unusual, things that are downright weird. I don't know if it is the result of a childhood's worth of travel, but I seldom feel like a foreigner. Not in Mexico. Not in an Asian market. Not anywhere. Outsider, yes. Foreigner, no.

Is it fairly customary for taxi drivers in Tijuana to offer first a taxi, then -- upon declination -- a massage and then an outright marriage proposal? What a friendly nation!

My eyes hurt today.

"Sam, I'm glad you're here with me."

Another excursion into Middle Earth. Basking in my father's comforting and familiar scent. It's nice to sit next to him. I took more from the movie this time than the first time around. Or at least as much. I shed tears in the same places. Ate popcorn and plain M&Ms. It was good for me.

"I feel thin. Sort of stretched out. Like butter spread over too much bread." Bravo, Bilbo. You make the want of a journey seem real and reasonable. I would like to see mountains, too.

Show Time

Two fun shows at the theater tonight. I won Do Do Ron Ron, and apparently that made me the hero of a group of high school or college age girls who insisted on calling me out of the theater after the show so they could tell me how cool I was. All on account of my rhyming skills. Which are actually not as sharp as they may have seemed tonight. I often suck at the rhyming games. Just not tonight. And then one young lad turned the expected high five into a somewhat extended holding of my hand as he passed by. I felt just slightly popular tonight, and I didn't mind it.

The drive down was hellish. I arrived tired and stiff and achey and not at all looking forward to performing. But having the shows go well is a nice boost. And being surrounded by friends and people I like and who give the appearance of liking me is no kick in the teeth either.

I'm tired now. I hope that means that I will find restful slumber. I hope I will dream something fun and exciting. And I hope I will forget it as soon as I wake up. I just want to pass through it. Harvest the enjoyment and then forget it. This seems to be a significant tenet of my life philosophy at the moment. Although it seldom works.

I bought too many baked goods at the Asian market tonight. I went in starving. That's not smart. I'm sure my mother will enjoy scolding me about it tomorrow.

"Bingoli."

I'm so fortunate to have friends who like interesting things and know stuff. I'm so happy to have someone to watch After the Fox with me and say the lines along with the movie, just like I do. And someone kind enough to bring me a bottle of merlot. How lucky I am. I have stumbled on some wonderful things. Foundling friends I treasure. Perhaps because they are that certain brand of serendipity that you can't create or keep. And there is something happily organic about meeting people out in the world for no good reason. It's rarer than it should be.

I didn't do enough work last night. And that's the truth. But I felt fatigue on me like a coat made of ultra-dense lead. And there was a 1960s Walt Disney World Orlando program on the Disney Channel. I was powerless to resist it.

Satisfaction among the doldrums. It's still satisfaction, isn't it?

Let the games begin. Or let them end. They're only games, after all.

I spent the day in an off-site meeting at the Beverly Plaza Hotel. The last time I was there was October 1. It was my first actual day at work. I had packed a suitcase, because I was staying in a hotel for the week as I looked for an apartment and tried to get used to the idea of living in Los Angeles. I remember leaving San Diego that morning. It was a strange, sad goodbye. I remember what I was wearing. I always remember what I was wearing.

The executive board room (which has no business having such a lofty-sounding name) smelled just as it did at 10:30 A.M. on that morning in October. The ice water still tastes as if it was dipped from a swimming pool. The lunch menu was still maddeningly inaccurate. The climate control was poor. The elevators were stuffy. The bathroom was as well. It was all the same. Just as I had remembered it. And it was interesting to be taken back. I didn't know that I was going to be. It caught me off-guard.

I wonder about the purpose of nostalgia. I don't find myself benefiting from it much. More like falling prey to it. It's bittersweet, and that's a sort of nicety. But I am left wanting. And that is not for the best. Looking back, I see the roll call changing. The landscape of friendships gotten and forgotten. The curvature of love and loss and smiles and stings. Change hurts sometimes. But I often make reference to that bit in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader when Eustace has been turned into a dragon and must dig so deep into the scales that it hurts, in order to shed the hideous outer part and reveal the boy inside. What is arduous has its rewards. One would hope so, anyway.

I said goodbye to a lot of things that morning. And I wasn't in San Diego to smell my Present Laughter weather coming on. I wasn't anywhere, really. Sort of adrift. By turns, exhilarated and eviscerated. I seem to straddle the extremes. I wonder if I'm due for a bit of the middle of the road this year. A taste of the happy medium. A glimpse of bliss maybe?

"Off the charts." Am I? It's nice to hear.

Nothing makes sense to me today. And I think I am developing a Red Bull dependency.

The Fourth Rule of Being

If you eat really good ice cream, you will be at least two and a half ounces happier than you were before you ate it. And don't ask me why happiness is measured in ounces. Just accept and apply.

Unfortunately, I managed to not eat any ice cream at all today. But that's my fault. I still have a card for Moo Time in my wallet. Maybe I'll let them set me up this weekend. A little stracciatella never hurt anyone.

3 A.M.

I win.

The Race to 3 A.M.

This notion of when I should be sleeping. I manage to make myself a guilty failure even in this. If I stay up. If I never manage to settle into cozy slumber. If I can't keep my mind off whatever it's on. I can hate myself for it. And that is the opposite of helpful.

I did feel ready to sleep tonight. But I was not where I should have been. Now that I am back where I belong, the sleep eludes me. A temptress. A tease. A woman of ill-repute who is to be avoided at all costs. What a useless metaphor that was.

I did a lot today. There is no reason to ignore that. I did a lot. I thought a lot. I wrote a lot. I dreamed a lot. I even laughed a lot. Maybe the problem is I've had my fill and then some. Maybe I just need to take it easy on some level. I wish I could fashion a protocol for that. How to take it easy in thirty-nine simple steps...

This is a time for cautious self-awareness.

The bumper-sticker quality of my fan mail

Well, I don't know if I'd call it fan mail, necessarily. But I do get a lot of very encouraging and appreciative notes from people for various reasons. And I've been getting messages lately that contain exclamations such as "Keep on truckin'!" and comments such as "Freaking awesome, as we now say in England." I really like that people take the time to pariticipate in the lives of perfect strangers. The Internet has been very good to me.

Seeing the world through world-colored glasses

It feels like something out of fantasy novel. Learning to see things are they really are. To see people as they really are. It's sort of like the concept of the true name. Once you see people as they are, you have the secret to their power. And the power disappears.

It's not about defeating them or destroying them or even disempowering them. It's like seeing the shadow of what looks like a very large thing and being intimidated by it, only to learn that the shadow is being cast by a very small thing. A ridiculously small thing. Something so small and unfrightening that you have to laugh at your earlier fear. So maybe that's what it's about. Being able to laugh about it. And then getting on with things.

"You are a lovable, optimistic sponge and you always try to do the right thing."

Catharsis in the Trashcan

I grew slightly less sentimental today. I was actually able to throw something away. Good for me. And for the world as a whole.

Little girl comes to you cautiously, gingerly; does she dare to trust again?
She comes on dark wings, with pink ribbons
wanting pretty things, ice cream
and a place in your heart
She whispers and wants you to listen
She is fragile and strong
Like a milkweed seed
floating, looking for somewhere to land
if you nurture her, she will grow
and bring you gifts of butterflies
     - Ellen Jaffee Bitz

The brutal exhaustion of holding one's shape

Maybe the trouble with this past weekend was having to keep the mask on for so much uninterrupted time. My changeling matter wants to revert, to relax. I cannot hold this form for days on end. It tempts me to forget the shape I am when I let myself fall back into it. I am not entirely amorphous. But I am not the girl you see.

"Just like a child, you make me smile when you care for me..."

I fought the inclination to come and write at 2 A.M. And then at 3. And then at 4. And god knows how many times in-between. Mainly, because I couldn't see the value of coming to write, "I am not sleeping." There were other things to write, but I was convinced that to pursue them in vivid thought would just cause me to be further awake.

"You go crazy again!"

It was a fun night out. Never what I expect. But fun. I chose songs and had them sung to me and sang along. And I reverted to my old standard Campari soda for a change. It is bitter and sweet. I remember that.

I spent so many hours in bed, conscious of the fact that I was awake -- rebellious about it. I couldn't get comfortable. I couldn't find comfort. I couldn't keep my mind from racing. I haven't gone through it for a long time. And I don't have fond recollections of the recent time when I did.

I penalize myself for it. I am living someone else's life in my pre-sleep mind. I am rehearsing the words and reliving the moments and believing I know what it all means and what it has been like each step of the way.

Sometimes, I am favored with a brief moment of clarity. I realize -- or I discover -- that things aren't always as they seem. Or that things aren't always portrayed as they are. Even to close friends and confidantes. The joy I project, the satisfaction I assume, the forgetting I believe in -- they are not necessarily real or true or there. That provides me with some comfort. And I should learn to factor it in to my reckless musings. I should learn to talk myself down from that ledge. To slow my heart rate. To bring the flush down from my cheeks. To halt my limbs in their trembling. I should catalogue the formula for that salvation. I am acceptance now. I am able to be.

So many things I have told myself I could bear. So many times I have reassured myself, "You can do this." It hasn't made things any easier or more sure.

"It's a question of not letting what we've built up crumble to dust..."

When I loved the song A Question of Lust in high school, it was romantic and meaningful to me. But I wonder what I was actually feeling or who I could have possibly been feeling it for. As much as the music of my adolescence still speaks to me now, I am often amused and curious about the way it once moved me. Or how it could have. When I was a nervous young girl who knew nothing of love and wondered if she ever would.

The more I learn, the more I cherish a certain level of ignorance.

A Day Off for Mary or The Beginning of the Middle of the End

Another night of sleepless sleep. Too much dreaming. Too much leaving on of the television. Too much.

I have been viewing the time I set my alarm as a challenge of how long to remain in bed these days. Today, I fell short by several hours. It's that old irony of hating to take naps as a child and then growing into adulthood only to find that you would give your kingdom -- or a whole pie -- for the chance to take a nap on a weekday afternoon. If only this phase shift of desire and delivery could right itself.

The drive last night was quiet. Music-filled, but quiet. We didn't say much. But the negotiations and reprimands went on full force in the privacy of my soundproof skull. I wanted to step out of my thoughts and into the present, but I never managed to.

I am beginning to feel as if everything that I used to be proud of in myself is now part of everything that I see as flawed and detrimental. The qualities that made me well-liked and accessible and easy to love and easy to know -- I feel as if I am beginning to despise those qualities outright.

"Slowly learning that life is okay..."

I only sing along to certain songs. And it isn't necessarily the ones I like best.

My eyes are open. The sun is burning them.

But I see most when i am not looking.

The Weight of Things

My heart is so heavy, it hurts.

  

 

Ceci n'est pas une placeholder.

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Little Heart Attacks

Today was full. And I am full. It was a gluttonous day in many ways. I seem to be programmed to indict myself for that.

I just want to break free of the strange bonds that still hold me. They are paper thin. Brittle. Flimsy. Utterly powerless against me if I would only stretch my wings. I want to break them and cast them aside. I want them to disintegrate into the air and float away into nothing. I have the idea that -- when that happens -- I will float away myself. So light will I be. So unfettered. I will have difficulty keeping my feet on the ground at all.

  

Nova Express

  


Another night. Another nosh. Another passion fruit Italian soda.

"Also, there is something good to be said about the thrill of almosts."

Brilliantly put.

No More Air

Dream. Asphyxiation. Party in a room filled with water. I was paralyzed, so my husband was carrying me. But I was sociable. My husband was supposed to bring me to the surface to get air periodically. I let him know that I needed air. I was laughing and just gesturing to him casually. He tried to raise me to the surface, but the water had gotten deeper and he couldn't get my head above it. And eventually I passed out. And he was frantic. Going crazy and screaming in that underwater silence for the help of everyone else at the party. But they weren't listening. And I didn't believe he was trying hard enough. And then I was the husband. And I felt the desperation of holding someone in my arms and being responsible for them but knowing that I couldn't give them what they needed and that they were going to die with the knowledge that I let them down.

Sinus pressure. Need more sleep.

Driven

Oooh! -- but do I love a project! Even though my eyes are burning and I haven't finished many things I should have, I'm glad I've been motivated to make and do and fix.

And I'm especially fond of Thai food from Natalee's on Robertson.

Endangered Species

Word of the Day for Thursday February 14, 2002:

philter \FIL-tur\, noun:
1. A potion or charm supposed to cause the person taking it to fall in love.
2. A potion or charm believed to have magic power.

transitive verb:
To enchant or bewitch with or as if with a magic potion or charm.

Some things you can feel coming. You don't fall in love
because you fall in love; you fall in love because of the
need, desperate, to fall in love. When you feel that need,
you have to watch your step; like having drunk a philter,
the kind that makes you fall in love with the first thing
you meet. It could be a duck-billed platypus.
--Umberto Eco, [1]Foucault's Pendulum

Horsey

Too late to belabor the issue of Chinese New Year. Or Mardi Gras, for that matter. Too late to wisely eat the things that are prone to bring good fortune in the coming year. But I've eaten many things on Chinese New Years past and have seen little change in the fortune quotient. Having a flaming drink at the Twin Dragon, I saw Ed O'Ross enjoying a nice Chinese dinner. Good for him. I didn't see what he ordered, so I can't confidently applaud his choices. But I'll bet he was eating something interesting. I was not inconspicuous in my taking note of him. I always feel a bit like a rube when a celebrity catches me experiencing recognition, but I was half tempted to go over and make a nuisance of myself. It would have made for a memorable evening.

Instead, memories were just as deftly made with my first visit to Jumbo's Clown Room. The rumors are true. It isn't "faux dive." But it is its own brand of cool. I was glad to have gone.

Robert Motherwell

The later it gets, the earlier it seems.
The longer I go, the further I get.
The more I, the less I.

I can hear crickets. And the refrigerator humming. And someone coughing on the street. I can hear my own desire to be hearing all of this in my dreams. I can hear my reluctance to let sleep come. And yet when I listen, I can hear scarcely anything at all. The sounds find me, but the meaning eludes me. And time runs short. And sleep beckons.

I'm glad there is water. I am the bearer of a powerful thirst.

Pink Lady and Jeff

Today was a day that both flew and crawled. I started earlier than usual and ended later than usual. I filled the interim time with meticulous labor and occasional swearing. But I got a great deal done. And I didn't forget to appreciate the incredibly beautiful sunset.

  

Picnic in the Park

Balboa Park was beautiful today. Windy, but sunny and full of people with their dogs and their footballs and their frisbees. I have a lot of memories of that place. Sometimes I think it is the one place in San Diego most apt to remind me that I don't live there anymore.

And sometimes I feel the same way about Costco.

I keep noticing the way the rooms in my family's house smell. How much they smell just the way they did when I lived there by myself. Even after a terrible fire and a complete reconstruction. I catch familiar breaths of warm upstairs or cool ashes in the fireplace or the way the bathroom smells when you've just had a shower and you open the window to let out the steam. This was once my home. But even now, when I have a key and a room that is almost officially mine, I can't help but feel that it is no longer my home. That it is no longer the place that will house my newly-made memories. That it is no longer a safe resting place for the memories I have already made.

This morning, I awoke from a dream in which I was out on a date with Ralph Lauren. I wasn't wearing any make-up and was still in my pajamas, but he was very nice to me, and I was looking forward to going out with him again. And my family, all of whom were there for some reason, were very supportive of that. I'm inclined to find the entire notion ridiculous.

Despite four reasonably satisfying performances, I somehow manage to come away from the weekend feeling less than satisfied, less than accomplished, less than finished. Maybe that's what keeps me on my toes.

From coal, diamonds

Press press press.

Will there be anything left of me when all the pressing is done?

Time management and morning drinks

Today, I decided not to compromise. I decided to go ahead and schedule two obligations in the evening and to make it to both of them, and I'm glad I did. From a smoothie and fries with a cool girl who wears excellent glasses and has the best voice to a trip down to Hermosa Beach for a lame-ish Valentine's event that I am glad I attended -- if only for charity. What a jam-packed evening it has been. I am tired, drained, a little liquored up. And I had to defend my choice of a bloody mary at the bar, having been told that it's really a morning drink. I said, "It's morning somewhere." And that was the end of that. The sticker on my back read "Pamela Anderson." Make sense of that if you can.

Making the most of one's time can be a taxing affair.

Shabu shabu of the rich and famous -- well, the famous, anyway

I went out for shabu shabu with Mom tonight, and I was recognized by someone who only knows me from my pictures. It was cool and surreal and a little jarring. And cool again. As big a town as Los Angeles is, it's really very small. That I have had someone pick me out at a movie theater (having only seen my photos, as well), and that I was spotted on the street by a cousin I hadn't seen in nearly three years -- there's a certain small-townness about that. Or maybe it's just that there's only eight or so places that anyone goes. I'm reluctant to assert that as a theorem, though. I've been to well in excess of eight places, and I barely go anywhere at all.

So, now I'm going to try my hand at writing a sex advice column. Perhaps people will begin recognizing me from my name on the masthead of an actual actual magazine. But I have a feeling I look nothing like my name.

What's all this? I'm not perched by the seashore.

I can't figure out why the seagulls are literally swarming outside my window. Great, lovely eddies of them. Are there fish being sold in the flower shop below? Is the ocean creeping towards me? Has Santa Monica been engulfed? Someone alert the authorities! I hope they can swim...

Kindling

Jo and I had our first meeting tonight. I feel inspired and motivated and...accountable? I have had an assortment of fires burning in and around me in recent months. I'm glad this one is under me. We'll see where it takes me.

Time travel and other documentarian impulses

Right around the new year, I began creating this document. I am lining up the years against one another, a day at a time, and using calendars and journals and my scarily accurate memory to catalog the things I did. It's been an interesting exercise. And it's provided me with substantial reason to gawk and cluck at how much I have done in recent years. My performance life, my professional life, my personal life -- I lived enough of each of them for at least one additional me, perhaps even two. And I kept a harrowingly full schedule. Driven, I was. And obligated.

It has also given me cause to wish I had been more detailed in my note-taking or that I had a working version of the old 1996 QuickMail app for Mac so that I could page through my many, many emails from way back when. I have been fairly diligent over the past year or so in my journal-keeping. And I am seeing the reason for it as I build this history. But even without the aid of documents, I could tell you off the top of my head how I spent every Superbowl Sunday in the past decade. I couldn't tell you who played necessarily, but I could tell you where I was and what I was doing. That's true for every major holiday and birthday and reasonably special occasion. I carry around meaningless anniversaries with me constantly. I think of today, and I have this instantaneous list, à la Entertainment Tonight or Dateline NBC, where they give you a list of celebrity birthdays or an "on this day in history" thing. I can tell you who else this day might be important to and why. I can list the things that happened in at least a handful of preceding years. And, if the events are significant enough, I can tell you what day of the week they took place and what I was wearing (the what I was wearing is the easy part). If I ever meet you, I'll remember what it was like when I did. And I'll record all sorts of useless data for future reference and bring it up when you least expect it. And you will feel as if I am trying to tell you that you don't care enough about me to remember useless details. But you will be misinterpreting me. I will just be reminiscing and glorying in the ability to go back and relive things at the drop of a hat. It can be a great thing.

It can also stall you out. Or me, for that matter. I realize that I spend a great deal of time living in the past, a place where I have no power. A place where the scenes are static and nothing ever changes. It's sort of like trying to build a social life in a wax museum. Aside from the fact that all the faces look sort of gross and dirty and everyone's a good deal shorter than they are in real life, there's the added deficit of nothing ever happening there. The wax museum is no place for a living, breathing girl. A living, breathing girl belongs out on the town, shopping like a mad fool, stopping for coffee and madeleines, strolling through museum galleries, ignoring her carbohydrate intake, buying concert tickets, making friends, and creating new memories for the record. Memories which can be revisited from time to time but that should never become a regular haunt. A living, breathing girl can't live in the past. Everything is dead there. And no one will notice her nice new shoes and pants.

"Certain" is such a vague term.

No linguini for me. Instead, sushi. I'm fine with that. Sushi and amusing, enlightened conversation. And the artful avoidance of sake.

Crunch

I've barely had a moment today to feel much of anything, although there are certainly things that want for feeling. I feel them beginning to flood in now. Now that I am alone and quiet and able to think clearly. I feel the passage of time. I feel the vastness of space. I feel my separateness with more distinct clarity than I ever have before. I feel a weightiness in my heart that could easily be confused with a hunger in my tummy. I feel reluctance. I feel insignificant and mighty all at once. And I feel curious about what is to come.

I had hoped to spend time tonight with an old friend. Instead, I will do some more catching up with my cousin and perhaps have some stories to tell on my return. Linguini is in my future. It is the only thing of which I can be certain.

February is so very

The day is divisible by the month, and the month caps the ends of the year. Too bad that will have no effect whatever on the cosmic forces at play.

It's been a long time since I've eaten at McDonald's. I wonder why that is.

Another day, another stamp on the hand

So, now I've been to the Roxy. And to see the amazing Jonatha Brooke, no less. Smashing. Really. I loved it. There's something unique about her. She's one of those artists who seems to say what I would want to be saying. I can recognize the sentiments she expresses as my own. It makes for a very personal experience. And she's such a dynamo. I loved her performance. The way she seemed to be enjoying it so much. And how her facial expressions and smiles and eye movements seemed to be flirting with the audience. And for her first encore, she did -- unequivocally -- the sexiest rendition of You Really Got Me I have ever seen or heard. I can thank NPR for introducing me to her. But I suppose I'd have to thank her for being so earth-shatteringly excellent. Buy Steady Pull. Now.

Then I got back to my car to find that a Volvo had used my rear bumper as a guide for when to stop moving forward while parking. I left a note and took pictures. The whole shebang. Mary Forrest. Ace gumshoe. On the case.

For toppers, as I was leaving Mel's, after eating a roast beef sandwich whose roast beef was only slightly less sturdy than shoe leather, I stood aside at the door as a group of three people walked in past me, one of whom was Ron Jeremy. Now I can say I have made eye contact with Ron Jeremy. And that I have eaten more than once at Mel's. There.

Earlier in the day, I had a nice day of lunch and shopping with Karen. I took this photo outside of Hugo's. The signs read "Shakespeare Society of America."

I got all of three hours of sleep last night. I am so very hopeful that I will be able to up the average with tonight's endeavors.

Trust me!

Here's a picture I took at lunch the other day at Sushi Sasabune.

The restaurant is in what looks as if it used to be a quaint little house. The photo is sitting on the ledge of a little inset in the wall behind our table. The note tucked in the frame reads: "Slide into my mouth. Trust me!" It's actually a piece of the wrapper for the chopsticks that are set on the table. The entire package reads exactly as follows:

SUSHI
DELICATE SNOWFLAKES REST ON WARM, SWEET RICE BEDS FLAVORS INTERWINED.
TRANSLUSCENT JEWEL - (SLICED) NATURAL PERFECTION - SLIDE INTO MY MOUTH.
                                                                                       TRUST ME!

I'm a big fan of all things Japanese. This might be part of the reason why.

Phooey. Too bad there wasn't time for a snowbubble after lunch.

Ooh, it's all sticky, isn't it?

Josh took me to the launch of this club called Red. Cool rave scene. We danced for hours. I needed that. And I'm glad I called him. I'm still putting on the mask of the brave little soldier, but I'm not thinking about it as much when there's music to dance to and lasers to look at and overpriced drinks to swill. And I've still got my orange V.I.P. wristband and everything. It's nice, every now and then, to feel like the girl who's got the hook-up.

I might have just stayed home tonight. I was really beginning to enjoy what portion of the Nickelodeon programming I caught before I got Josh's call. And I was working on things in my head. But I was drained from the week and was primed for distraction. I'm glad I didn't find a reason to weasel out of it. I have a feeling the next few weeks are going to be extremely challenging, and I really want to come out on the other side of them feeling triumphant.

Car alarms are like the birds of the city...

I could really use a hug today. So much so that I feel as if I can barely stand up.

Tuk Tuk

  

This is where I ate.