I've got a sugar brioche, and I'm not afraid to use it.

I wish I hadn't been so tired today. I would have felt many more things. Like that strange sensation of coming home to a city you were never sure was your home. That rare relief of dropping your things on the dining room floor and sinking into a chair and being so very grateful to be back where you started. I wanted more sensation. I wanted the fireplace to burn hotter. I wanted to feel my skin stinging in its heat. I wanted more evidence that I'm still here. That my heart sill beats. That I am a living creature. I expect that gnawing urge will remain until tomorrow when I will pursue its indulgence anew.

I don't believe in magic in the traditional sense. Neither witches with cauldrons nor fancily-dressed gents with disappearing rabbits and endless ropes of colored scarves tied together. But I do believe in another sort of magic. A magic born of firing synapses and sharp intakes of breath. The magic of that moment when you say, "Yes! That's it exactly." The magic of a perfect song. The magic of likeness of mind. The magic of understanding. That unseverable connection of commiseration and unique but shared reasoning. I am lucky. I get to take a dip in that sort of magic more often than most. But I am greedy. I would like to swim in it constantly. I don't think that's to be had. Yet.

I don't want much of tomorrow. But that's just me talking today.

"Although I may go, I'll be coming home soon."

  

Ernie and I have a lot in common. We both have cute pajamas. We both just celebrated Halloween. We both love the rain. We both choose horizontal stripes, no matter what the experts say. Ernie has lived in the same apartment for a long, long time, though. And I envy him that. I'd like to know what it's like to stay put for a while.

It's not easy being green. But some days are easier than others.

Kermit got his star on the Walk of Fame today. I drove through San Francisco this morning and listened to a story on NPR about The Muppet Show and its history and the wonderful, magical powers of Jim Henson. There is something so pure and good-natured about the Muppets. A lovely thread leading back to an innocence I can faintly remember. I love being touched in those hard-to-reach places.

Getting there is half the fun; come share it with me...

Of my favorite things, most have vowels in.

I love words. To the point where it may actually alienate me from three-dimensional relationships. I prefer a tenderly thought-out sentiment to a prize. I prefer a card to flowers. I prefer a letter to a box of chocolates.

Answering an email just now, I described myself as "dewy," having just emerged from a shower and encased within my celery-colored chenille robe. My hair is dripping water onto the seat of my chair. My skin is pink and flush with heat and steam and waking. I want to drink an ocean of water and go running, although I've learned it's unwise to do those two activities in that order.

Moreso than learning new words, I love rediscovering lost or forgotten ones. Finding dusty old codgers in the attic spaces of my memory. Recalling their previous use. Feeling that pang of shame when I realize I know how to spell far more words than I know how to use. But when I stumble upon a faithful mingling of letters at the moment when it is most appropriate to send it to the front, it's a gift. Like finding a sweet note in your pocket someone lovingly left for you a long time ago. As if you never actually knew it was there and yet it was all along. This sort of feeling tempts me to bury my precious belongings in the backyard in hopes that I will forget about them and one day accidentally unearth them while out back pitching a tent or burying a corpse. But I never seem to live in one place long enough for this to happen. And I seldom have a private backyard. Maybe I can just start stuffing pages of the dictionary into the crevices in my furniture. Of course, that might lead to calumny when I notice all the pages of my dictionary gone missing and accuse my little sister of the deed. And of even more obvious course, none of this could ever happen because it would require me to forget something. Which is something I almost never do.

I'm looking forward to today. I love an aeroplane. I will read and imbibe free beverages and shake my head when I discover the crossword in the in-flight magazine has already been done and in crayon. These and all the things I don't have the wherewithal to expect are the makings of an interesting Wednesday.

I don't need to be loved or understood by everyone. I don't need much of anything but Sudafed® and Visine® and a carryalong toothbrush™. And that's a hideous lie. I only dream of ever traveling so light.

It's a shame. She slept through the whole thing.

This is me waking up. From never really sleeping, actually. I have to catch a plane in a few hours, and I had that peculiar fear that I wouldn't wake up in time, so I woke up two hours early, with only two and a half hours of sleep to my credit, and spent the rest of the time lying there, taking stock of the pain in my neck and shoulder (right side, this time -- curious), wondering if I would fall asleep, wondering if I would oversleep, wondering if I just dreamed that I got that email, realizing I did, listening for ghosts. I even set three alarms. Just in case. I'm noticing that I actually feel more alert at this moment than I usually do when I wake during the sunshine hours. But, in an hour which usually precedes my bedtime, I have been roused from precarious slumber, and I feel as if I got up before I ever went to bed. It's that I'm-my-own-grandpa syndrome. With my good fortune, that means I will likely fall asleep at some very important moment during the day, thereby missing certain fame and fortune from having caught a certifiable glimpse of Sasquatch or passing up my opportunity to be loved and admired by all for a short time when I am recognized as the million zillionth customer at McDonald's. Starbuck's and Red Bull can only take one so far.

So much suddenly in my reach. So much persistently out of my reach. So much confusion and mishmosh, I want to make a pie of it.

Ghosts are very quiet. I have never managed to hear one yet. I wonder if anyone is listening for me.

A Tale of Two Taylors

I went to see a matinee of Ivanhoe at LACMA today. I'm really glad I did. The movie was great fun. Arch in some places. Clever in others. And of course both Elizabeth Taylor and Robert Taylor were lovely to gaze upon. But I was more impressed by the rest of the experience. Namely, that when you go to see a mid-day matinee at a museum, you can expect to see a fair share of blue-hairs there. And they were definitely out in force. I had to giggle at all the aged muttering going on during the opening credits. When some young punk applauded as Miklos Rozsa's name came up as composer, the ladies behind me were terribly confused and had no idea why he was clapping. They also ALL READ ALOUD IN UNISON when Elizabeth Taylor's name came up. But by twenty minutes or so into the film, most of them were asleep, so there wasn't too much more chatter to contend with. I am still suspicious, however, that I missed a concession stand somewhere out front where they must have been selling snacks of bubble wrap and expectorant.

Also, there was a guy somewhere behind me who behaved as if it was a sports flick. He kept proclaiming his approval to the screen, no matter how clear it was that he was the only one making any discernible noise. People didn't chime in or clap. They just tolerated in tooth-gnashing silence. Or maybe that was just me. I never thought I would hear that manner of cheer during a jousting scene. But I guess everyone goes to the lists these days, right? Why do I need to be such a stuffed shirt about it. I heard cries of, "Yeah!" and "You tell him!" and "Get him, Robin Hood!" And then -- and if you haven't seen it, this is a spoiler warning -- when King Richard returns and confronts John, I heard the phrase, "Get yo ass into exile!" And I knew we had reached the film's happy -- and historical -- end.

I was raised by a team of sit-com writers.

I called my mother this morning to let her know some encouraging news about a possible job opportunity. She was giddy with congratulations. But somehow, only a few sentences into her congratulatory speech, she managed to remind me that my biological clock is ticking and that I can have a part-time job one day when I find a nice husband to take care of me. And then she made some remark about where her grandchildren were.

I don't even think she was really thinking those things. I really believe she is just fulfilling her maternal duties as she believes they were explained to her. By television.

My mother might as well have been created by a staff of writers at an up-and-coming network, specializing in homegrown comedies about archetypal families. She is a caricature of motherhood. Oh, she's a loving and kind person, and she makes me laugh, and we enjoy going out to dinner together. But her mothering functions are almost robotic in nature. As if they are products of algorithms written years ago. In Fortran. Not quite sophisticated enough to deal with the complexities of a modern offspring. But plenty equipped to toast a bagel or suggest a Tylenol for the pain.

I suppose a mothering robot would be sufficient. A machine to say no when you want to go somewhere fun. To fixate on how clean your room is. To be suspicious of certain of your friends. To ask you how you plan to pay for that. To remind you that you were once heavier and shouldn't be so keen on the dessert menu. To ask you what you plan to do in the event that you have to buy a new car. To ask you about the terms of your lease. To tell your fathering robot things you asked her to keep between the two of you. To buy you feminine products. Sure, a robot could do the job.

And I'm not saying that's all I get from my mom. Surely not. She's one of a kind and great to me. And she's mastered the art of preparing meat with brine. But I am often -- and consistently -- amused when this sort of thing occurs. It will come as no great shock to me when, one day, upon having given birth to my first child, I will hear my mother inquiring as to how I intend to pay for college. "That's a cinch, Mom," I'll say. "I'll just encourage little Mary Junior here to join the military. Just like you told me to do." Never mind that I couldn't climb a rope or last a complete second on the flex-arm hang. Never mind that I am extremely choosy about the kind of pants and shoes I wear. Never mind that I have no idea how to pull off the wearing of a hat. My mom thought I should conquer the financial mountain of higher education by suiting up with the Navy. I'm still laughing about that.

Anyway, the core of it is that my mom was happy for me. I know that. It's just less and less of a mystery to me why I'm never quite satisfied with anything. In my family, if you're not worrying about something trivial, you're not living.

The Great Pre-Dawn Paradox

Working so late fills me with a full measure of both satisfaction and revulsion. Especially knowing that I will retire soon to my bed, where I will read until the sun comes up and then fall prey to the sort of dreams that underscore the reasons for my sleeping so little and so seldom.

I felt sad today. Sad and suspicious. Sure of the distance. Threatened by it. Angry over it. Envious of what evades me and seems to come so easily to everyone else. Curious whether all it takes is settling for what you happen upon.

I never even give myself a chance to be wonderful.

"All she ever thinks about is riding with the wind"

The fire never lasts long enough. The night comes too soon. The light fades. You miss things. You know that you've missed them, but they're gone, just the same. How will I ever find time or tears enough to mourn all that I have missed -- all that has passed and cannot be revived. How will I ever bury what I haven't yet seen. What I may never see.

I am an old woman and a child at once. I am a smile and a gasp. I am cold at the fingertips and hot at the eyelashes. I'm not the girl I think I am.

I have excellent vision, but my posture could be better.

Well, she's walking through the clouds
With a circus mind
That's running wild
Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams
And fairy tales

All she ever thinks about is
Riding with the wind

When I'm sad she comes to me
With a thousand smiles
She gives to me free

It's alright, it's alright, she says
Take anything you want from me
Anything

"Meary can not live alone. She feels lonely everytime."

My friend Adam pointed me in the direction of this fascinating new weirdness. And whaddya know -- it's from Japan!

I miss living in Japan. I miss discovering this sort of strange genius everywhere. And I mean everywhere. I miss finding clever and ridiculous marketing tactics employed to promote urinal cakes. Nothing is too small or too embarrassing or too misunderstood. I just bought a package of sweet rice squares called "Rice Pop" today. The slogan on the package reads, "Natural style of deliciousness." I readily admit that I bought the package for the slogan and not for the contents. I'm not at all hungry.

I would like to go back to Japan now that I know what I've been missing. I know I will appreciate it all more and differently. My actual experience in Japan involved a lot of drinking and poetry-writing and strip poker and Night Ranger and debate practice and yearbook deadlines and frustration over not being able to find shoes in my size. I would be much more attuned to the miracle that is the culture over there if I had to pay for my own plane ticket. And if I had to leave in oh, say, a week. And if I didn't have to go to high school while I was there.

Americans like to put stickers on things, too. But I wonder if they are as adept at promoting a sense of mythical community and false belonging as the Japanese. I wonder indeed.

Here's the best part:

"Meary can not live alone. She feels lonely everytime. ...She is the mirror which projects your feeling...Meary has a dream..in which she makes a friend all over the world. If someone points at your Meary and ask you what it is, please tell him that it is a name of 'Meary,' and divide a little of your Meary into the man."

A to the men, my brothers.

"The city where Sound of Music was filmed is Salzburg -- not Auschwitz."

It's remarkable that I am able to pull off the pretty, sporty look today given the lengths of drunkenness to which I stretched myself in the hours preceding. I should look like death in a sweater with lipstick. I look slightly better. I was actually surprised to see the blog entry that comes before this one. I have only the faintest recollection of having typed it. I did quite a bit of typing last night, it seems. When I got out of bed this morning -- fully clothed, plastic wristband in place, miserable -- I came to my computer to find evidence that I had had the idea to say a great number of things I don't really remember. Fortunately for me, I was an ardent composer but a dilettante in the subject of sending. My dizzy keystrokes never left the screen. I have to remind myself that I am far more likely to say things I will later regret when I am grand on the sauce. That's good advice for anyone.

That would be nice, actually. If I would come to my weblog on some days and find an entry written for me. Like the Elves and the Shoemaker. Little magical sprites hacking into my journal to write things that I might have said while I am left to slumber in my bedthings, smelling of flowers and the faintest hint of cinnamon. I would be grateful for that.

It rained and rained all the day long. I loved it from indoors.

Raindrops on roses.I'm drunk. I have no business typing. I should do nothing but shepherd myself off to bed. I think I shall.

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.

I answered my door a few moments ago and was greeted by two young fellows from Philadelphia and Atlanta, respectively, with a sales pitch that lasted for ages. I tried to get them to cut to the chase. I asked what they were selling. They said they weren't selling anything but good looks and personality. By the time we got to the part about me agreeing to order a new magazine subscription, both of them had proposed marriage and offered to show me around their respective home towns. One swore to having seen me on the pages of Cosmopolitan, which he was also delighted to report I could order for a period of 24 months for a nominal fee. They also suggested Seventeen. Which is just madness. I was kind and assured them that I would have selected a title if I didn't already subscribe to all of the magazines I can handle at the moment. And even though I'm sure they hated me for not giving them any scratch, the littler one bid me adieu by saying that he still wishes he could have my hand in marriage.

Well, it's nice to know I've got options.

I will spill no wine before its time.

I'm coasting on promises that everything will be all right. With the government in the hands of the Republicans, I'm certain that doom is on the horizon. A big ugly doom with extra holsters for its guns and a bandolier of alternating rounds and severed baby heads. How can a girl smile on a day like this?

Tenebrous Tasks of the Trod-Upon

I got my vote on.
I met my deadlines.
I responded as was necessary.
I deleted as was appropriate.
I bared my shoulders and slipped on my sunglasses.
I walked downhill.
I opened my heart and closed it again.
I snapped a few pictures.
I punched a hole and let a little soul leak out.
I felt the weight of it all.
I noticed that sometimes my lips make me look like a bird.
I frowned some.
I waited for things that did not show themselves.
I stopped waiting.
I envied.
I questioned.
I got in a funk.
I put one foot in front of the other and hoped it would take me somewhere.
I gave voice to secret thoughts that were never so secret.
I gave in to it.
I gave up.

I am never more myself than when I am not.

When will my dream come true and not have an alternate ending?

I continue to push the limits of tired. Two long days of band practice will do that to a gal. I'm not sorry we rehearsed. But I'm awfully displeased that our gig didn't come to pass. What a cheap wrap-up that was.

I didn't have as much time today to be caught off-guard or to get mired in the wrong sort of thinking. In a way, that made the brief flashes of madness all the more pronounced. But then, perhaps fatigue masquerades as gloom and I'm too distracted to discern them. I've had my share of both and they are not so dissimilar.

I just heard James Mason say, "One pet per sailor. Parrots preferred." That was a gift, to be sure.

I have a few ideas, you know. It's not over yet.

There is far too little of the harpsichord in modern music. I know I'm right about this.

"Pretty face. Iron lung."

*an exclamation involving the word "Murgatroid"!*

I'm drained to empty. What a long day. What a long week. What a disconcerting number of things. I haven't really had it in me to answer all the questions or confront all the obstacles. It's just keeping on for keeping on's sake. I'm grateful for intelligent, stimulating discourse. And base humor. And a stage to play on. And for cute tee shirts and second chances and commiseration and overkill. And strangely, I am grateful for obligation -- a persistent nemesis that keeps me from disappearing altogether. I once surmised that there would come a day that I would wake up and everything would be right -- exactly as it should be. Perfect. But there will never be a day like that. And if such a day were to come, what would be the point of waking up anyway. The waking would be indistinguishable from the dreaming, and everything would just blur into that haze that keeps you from barreling forward with any sort of certainty. Everything would look like that moment just before an 87-car pile-up happens on a foggy stretch of coastal highway. Faint red lights that look far more distant than they are. A road beneath you that you can only believe in but not see. That low-contrast world holds no appeal for me. I need contrast. I need brilliant whites and murky blacks and a little less grey, if you please. It's the grey -- the haze -- that causes me to squint. And I prefer to refrain from it.

No one ever thinks I'm as old as I am. And I have no idea how old that is.

Good listener marches on.

Recommended Daily Requirement

I've been getting email offers from entities such as Mango Casino and Kiwi Bingo. Did I miss it and were exotic fruits awarded the same sovereign status as Native American tribes at some point?

Dressed as the color blue

There are a lot of reasons to feel sad or to feel trodden upon or to feel unloved and unjustly so. Believe me -- the best costume of all is the one I wear day in and day out as I feign the absence of disappointment.

I didn't get any trick-or-treaters this evening, but if I had, this is how I might have looked to them:

And, having learned my lesson from last year, I didn't bother buying any candy. So, if I had had any trick-or-treaters, I would probably have given them cough drops.

And then I would have said, "Boo!"



And then they would all have come back the next day and covered my home in eggs and mustard. Ingrates. I wish I had given them something really awful, like sugar free candy or bouillon cubes. Ah, well. There's still time to throw sugar free candy and bouillon cubes at the revelers up on Santa Monica Boulevard.



Look out stilt-walkers -- them wrappers is slippery!

"I got chills. They're multiplying."

I guess it's part of the cosmic balance of things. Disney went all out to dress up the Haunted Mansion with a Nightmare Before Christmas theme -- which, if you haven't seen it, is much scarier and more of a sensory explosion than the original attraction by an extra-long mile...the kind of mile that is actually two or three miles -- but they also lame-ified Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln by adding this 3-D sound experience and the whole Journey to Gettysburg nonsense. It's gross and gimmicky and riddled with anachronistic humor (which is a precarious death nell for every cool bit of nostalgia still lurking at Disneyland), and the animatronic Mr. Lincoln doesn't even sit down anymore. He just stands in front of a picturesque sky and delivers his speech. If his jaw clacks at all, you miss it, because of the (suspiciously unsanitized) headphones you're forced to wear. They even got rid of the sentimental and moralistic folk music slide show with that ballad about two brothers, one of whom wore blue and the other of whom wore grey. I should have known it would suck. When you first enter the auditorium, the park employee instructs you to "pretend" that you're Private Somebody Cunningham, a soldier in the Union Army. Holy lord -- for the fee they charge you to enter the park, you'd think you'd be able to avoid "pretending" and actually rely on the Imagineers to work it all out for you. Next thing you know, they'll be ushering you into a dark auditorium and telling you to close your eyes and wish really hard for something entertaining to happen. And they'll call it something like "Imaginoventionamatronic," and it will be the first place you go when you enter the park to grab your Fast Pass and secure your future pleasure, proving that America knows nothing from fun.

In the new Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln, you're supposed to pretend you're meeting the president. Then you're supposed to pretend you just got your leg blown off. Then you're supposed to pretend that you chose to live because the president told you to. It's a good thing my imagination is so keyed up. Otherwise I might have been bored and confused. Instead, as soon as I left the auditorium, I went and married a beautiful, Boston-educated southern belle and set about the business of rebuilding my life in the tumultuous post-Civil War world. I keep a daguerreotype of my leg above the hearth as a reminder of what we, as a nation, lost. And I hope that, when my children are old enough to choose for themselves, sometime around 1881 or 1882, that they will use their democratic liberties to keep our nation free from oppression and war.

That whole bit was a lie, by the way. I don't have any children. And I keep the leg picture in my bedroom so as not to freak out the guests.

I had actually planned to take a small nap during the Lincoln deal, which is something I usually do in there. But I was so jarred by the changes that I couldn't really relax. Especially during the part where they simulate Mr. Lincoln whispering in your left ear in far too familiar a way. I was on my guard for him to actually thrust his tongue in there at one point. Back up, Abe. A soldier needs a little personal space, if you know what I mean.

But I should reiterate that the seasonally-revamped Haunted Mansion is the bee's knees and worth far more than the price I paid to see it, which was nothing. Also, I didn't know until today that they sold turkey legs at Disneyland, which they apparently do. And apparently they are a satisfying snack. I didn't eat one, but I saw the foil bags they came in, and they looked shiny and insulating -- proof that their contents were warm and possibly delicious.

I hope I'm not catching a cold.

Social Conscience

I don't know the exact numbers, but I thought I could disseminate a message more effectively by posting it here than by sending it to everyone in my address book. So, pretend that this is a forwarded message you got in your email inbox from me. After you get over your disappointment that there is nothing personal or humorous in its content, take action, if you are so inclined.

I received a forwarded email from a friend today that contained the following:

Last Friday, the Oprah show covered a story of a Nigerian woman, Amina
Lawal, who has been sentenced to death by stoning because she had a baby
out of wedlock. She has tried to appeal the decision but has been unsuccessful,
thus far. The head of Nigeria disagrees with these stonings but has so far done
nothing-partly because of the fear of not being re-elected. I should also note that
the father of the baby denied fathering the child and, hence, has escaped any
form of punishment.

Amina Lawal's stoning will occur as soon as she is finished nursing her
child. She will be buried up to her neck in dirt and townsmen will throw
stones at her head until they kill her-which has been known to take hours.
I send out a plea to all the women receiving this e-mail and to all the men
raised by women to join me and many others to help prevent this horrific
and inhumane event from occurring. Visit the Oprah website:
www.oprah.com and you will see a pre-written letter addressed
to the Nigerian Ambassador. Just fill out your information on the bottom
of the page and send it. It's as simple as that.

I'm pretty sure this isn't a hoax or an email scam. There are no promises that Bill Gates will send you and everyone you know $5000 if you complete the task. In fact, I'm pretty sure the only reward in it is the possibility of a sense of personal do-gooder-style satisfaction. But, if this is a scam, I apologize for wasting your time and I assert that someone on the Oprah show should be stoned. But I don't think this is a scam, so I hope you did what you could. And I encourage you to support Amnesty International.

Fathers, teach your boys not to pee on other people's property.

I almost forgot. This afternoon, I looked out of the upstairs window and saw a boy being encouraged by his father to relieve himself on the tree in the front yard. I hurriedly slid the window open and called out to the youngster, "Please don't do that." He looked up, startled, not quite sure where the voice was coming from, not quite sure whether zipping up of his pants was called for. So I continued, "Please don't pee on our lawn." He looked embarrassed, perhaps traumatized. And he put his pants back in order.

I had seen his father standing out in front of his car, waiting for someone I suppose. And I can understand that the lad needed to go. But I would have happily let him use the bathroom if he had only asked. And there's a strip mall less than a block away with all sorts of commercial establishments in it. Surely, he could have taken the boy to Stater Brothers and had him pee on one of their trees. I just don't know what sort of manners are being passed on anymore. It's like languages that become extinct. Soon, there will be entire generations of young westerners who don't know where it is and isn't acceptable to have a tinkle. Soon, it won't even be a legal requirement to use one's turn signal. Soon, we will be replacing the wave and the handshake with the bird and the punch in the nose. I didn't go to some ritzy finishing school, and I don't remember ever being SPECIFICALLY told not to pee on something that didn't belong to me, but somehow, that became a de facto part of my social vocabulary. I would hate to think that I am one of a dying breed.

I also wondered where the boy finally ended up going. But that's none of my business.

Daylight Savings Time Again Again Again

No matter what that clock says, I was driving until after 4 A.M. And that's no picnic. But I listened to my band's CD over and over and sang along and pricked my ears up for the new parts I will be adding and the hidden melodies no one has managed to find yet. And it felt less long than it actually was. But I am ever so tired and sort of out of myself.

Tonight was full of excitement and surprises and spooky nonsense. I'm fortunate to have gained an hour. I don't know how else I would have crammed all of it in.

It looks like rain. And I'm just looking in the mirror.

Dirty Hands. Bleeding Arms.

I'm a few cuts and scrapes away from perfection. And I'm dizzy with effort and exertion. But things look better from here.

It's cold, and it rained a little. I like the sound of leather soles on damp sidewalks. I like the sound of forgetting that you can only hear just as you drift off to sleep and you can never remember afterwards. I like the sound of soft sheets being pulled back when I -- sweet-smelling and bed-ready -- call it quits and tumble in. I like the sound of sprinklers coming on in the wee hours. I like the sound of everything working as it should.

If I were a robot, my happy green LED would indicate that I am in fine working order. When the LED flashes red, it would mean it's time to fuel my ice cream tank. But solid green would mean all systems go. And orange would mean it's time to carve a pumpkin.

"You can carry a lie till it makes you fall down."

I bought some inspiration tonight. It's nice that there are stores that sell it. I wonder what creative types used to do before commerce was so easy. I guess they had to actually have ideas on their own. Wow! What a bunch of boners they were! Ha ha ha ha ha!

Who's writing Microsoft Outlook's spellcheck application? Umberto Eco?

I just received a courteous spellcheck alert about my use of the word "cheeseball" in an email I was about to send. The suggested replacement was "chasuble," which is defined by Merriam-Webster as follows:

cha·su·ble 
 'cha-z&-b&l, -zh&-, -s&-
Etymology: Middle French, from Late Latin casubla hooded garment
Date: 14th century
: a sleeveless outer vestment worn by the officiating priest at mass

I am usually dismissive of Microsoft's questionable brand of erudition. I mean, Microsoft's grammar check will balk if your sentence is complex enough to require more than one comma. But this time I was truly surprised at how arcane the entry was.

I was half-tempted to accept the suggested change, just for kicks. But I was using "cheeseball" adjectivally, and "chasuble" is clearly a noun. Even for the sake of humor, I'm not going to be that irresponsible.

P.S. "Kryptonite" isn't in the Microsoft lexicon, either. What possible good can this dictionary do me?

Bloody Marys of Days Gone By

This was another day that was filled to the box tops. And still I flog myself with certainty that I haven't done anything at all. But I'm glad that today took place. And I'm sure that something got done. That's fine with me.

When it's cool enough outside that you can use the fireplace in the morning, I'm twinkly-eyed and smiling. It reminds me of days off from school for holidays like New Year's Day, watching Die Fledermaus and asking to be taken out for miniature golf. There are no rules. It doesn't have to be dark outside for a fire to make sense. Set your blazes as you fire up your waflle irons, America. I will not judge you.

I never go to bed when I intend to. My brain gets busy and I indulge it. And I am reluctant to set the pen down or close the laptop lid when words are spilling forth. I love to write in the wee hours. I love to set down my teeny tiny handwriting in my journal -- the one with the old school schematic drawing of a horse on the cover and the cardboard-colored binding. I wish I was writing something that had a real purpose. But I'm glad I'm writing just the same. Whether it means that things are okay or that things are abysmal, I'm glad that I'm forming sentences and searching for more interesting ways to say the plain things I think. It is the illusion of accomplishment. And it keeps my penmanship sharp.

So, there's this sniper arrest special report all over the networks right now. And there has been a modicum of information offered, but mostly it's just news anchors filling and repeating and filling and pausing to make serious faces into the camera. This reminds me of the day that John F. Kennedy Jr.'s plane went down. For days, the networks would cover nearly nothing else, but there wasn't any new information to offer. Just revisitations to childhood newsreel footage and magazine covers (including the People magazine issue that declared him the sexiest man alive) and George press conferences and paparazzi clips of John John and his girl making the most of the sidewalks of New York City. I wasn't unhappy to see all of this nostalgic fodder. But I got frustrated with how little new data was coming up. I felt like I was watching looped file footage. I get nervy and impatient, even when I should probably be mournful and reverent. I'm glad there have been arrests made in the sniper case. I am very angry at the sniper, and I rail against the idea that good friends of mine are having to put off refilling their gas tanks or having to walk in a zig zag pattern because of all of this. I want the sniper to be caught and "processed." But I also marvel at how many many many hours of commentary can be devoted to the singular announcement that arrests have been made. Can you imagine having an emotionally-charged discussion with someone who anchors the news? They'd probably blather on and on, repeating their points ad nauseum, recapping all of the salient points that have already been made, drawing correlations between this and previous discussions, and then let you know it's your turn to respond by saying, "Back to you." You'd never get anywhere. You'd roll your eyes and want to shove a Thanksgiving-sized turkey in their ear. That's the sort of thing frustration breeds.

I'm just taking note of the number of times this chick on NBC has said, "Again," in preface to her repeating everything she said 45 seconds ago. She's not even pretending to say anything new. She's just making sure that, if you joined the broadcast mid-sentence, you'll get the full scoop. She's very considerate. But I don't think she chose sensible earrings. And I'm beginning to doubt her sincerity. She's not really listening to the field correspondent. She's just looking at herself in the monitor. Egotist.

The drinks were good, but I shouldn't have passed on the edible fare. Now, I'm hungry. And forlorn about it. This is a microcosm of my greater dissatisfaction. If a pizza were to magically arrive in my lap right now, it would mean great things for the future -- all things being metaphorical. Incidentally, I am not a pizza purist. I like so many different kinds of pizza. I think it would be an unkind burden to have to feel loyal to a certain type of pizza just because of where you were born or because of how many vowels you have in your surname. So what if my pizza isn't like the kind you get in New York. So what if that's not the way REAL Italians make pizza. So what if it has ramen on it. Or cranberries. Or Chiclets, for that matter. I'm fine with it. And I'm not asking for your vote.

I'm only typing now because my computer is battery warm and the heat transfers cozily down through the comforter and onto my knees. I have run out of things to say, but spot warmth reminds me of living in Japan and surviving the cold, cold winters in the unheated houses with hot water bottles tucked under hefty bedspreads. I once cuddled with a metal hot water bottle that came in a corduroy drawstring sack. At some point in the night, my ardent clutching caused part of the bottle to be exposed, and I awoke with burns on my midriff from the hot metal. The burning itself didn't wake me. It must have happened gradually. As with frogs being boiled. I wanted the heat. And the burns on my belly were not too great a price to pay. Strange how our negotiating skills get diminished when the elements intervene.

I enjoyed taking pictures in the twilight. I liked playing violin on hardwood floors. I liked driving around town with a sweet little dog in my lap. Today was the sort of day that doesn't exist on the calendar. It's part of a holiday no one else is celebrating. It's a private escape. Very few other people had a today like mine. There is both privilege and elitisim in that.

Anyway...stop there.

Scintilla

Wireless LAN lets me peck away at the keys while reclining in my bed. It is both a luxury and a curse. And it's murder on my posture.

Whether it's saving or a cheeseburger or a pat on the back, I need something. That much is clear. Tonight, I shall go without. But there's still time. Not all of my smiles are false.

I am sore and bruised and tired. It dampens my mood.

Woebegone is half done.

We were looking for that cold, blustery day feel. So we took pictures in front of twisted dead trees and grey skies over green grass and the coming of dusk. It was not difficult to master that look of contemplative melancholy. And it wasn't difficult to give the appearance of being cold. We looked serious and cool. Except for the times we couldn't stop laughing. Which were plenty.

My sister dances like Shiva to prove her point. That's one of the ways she makes me laugh. The list is long.

Undisputed Scientific Observation

Professional athletes, retired or otherwise, are not good actors. Not in movies. Not in corn chip commercials. Not in community theater productions of Agatha Christie plays. They are not good actors. They are good runners or slam dunkers or putters or archers or bowlers or whatever the hell they are. They are not good actors. This is a boundary that should not be crossed. They are also, almost as a rule, not good autobiographers. And many of them can't carry a tune. Why aren't these boundaries being respected?

"Haven't you guys eaten that dog yet?"

Suck down a beer while watching The Story of G.I. Joe. I highly recommend it. Especially if you can do it with my dad. Who will tell you all about the quest to take Monte Cassino and add plenty of color and charm. If you're lucky and you're watching the movie on Turner Classic Movies at the same time I was -- in the past -- you can stick around afterwards for a wartime Looney Tune featuring Daffy Duck, a Cockney paratrooper, parachuting behind Nazi lines to antagonize a boorish Nazi duck officer. The story starts with a swastika flag flying outside a field barracks. Inside, mock German is being sputtered frantically. It ended with Daffy playing human cannonball and landing in a packed stadium where an animated Hitler (!) is addressing a crowd of his minions. Daffy hits him on the head with a mallet -- a recurring theme in the episode. And...fade to credits.

An animated Hitler. Wow. And it wasn't a very good animation. Not nearly as smooth or caricaturistic as the Looney Tunes versions of stars of the day such as Frank Sinatra, Peter Lorre, and Robert Mitchum. I guess they must have wanted him to look half-baked. Poor Hitler. No one is ever going to look at a photo of him and say, "Hey, Hitler looks really good in this shot." Or, "What a cute picture of Hitler. He looks so young and carefree."

I remember watching an old episode of The Family Feud many years ago, and the survey was about who you would expect to see in hell. The devil was top of the list. But Hitler was like number two. And I remember watching that episode as a small child and recognizing the name but not knowing why he would be someone I should expect to see in hell. It's odd to look back and realize that I was ever a naive little girl with no mountain of cares. I used to do exercises with my mom while she watched Richard Simmons. Or we would watch Mike Douglas. And then we would fold laundry or something like that. Sometimes, I forget those shows were ever even on the air. I used to watch David Letterman when he was on daytime. It only comes back to me in flashes. Then I realize that my brain was once much blanker. I'm just as curious as I used to be. But I tend to be surprised with less frequency. The first time someone played 52 Pick-Up with me, I laughed with delight. That wouldn't be true today.

Bring in the boom chicks

The clock is ticking. And I was born in the wrong decade. The wrong century maybe. But there's no fixing that.

I made lasagna and insalata di caprese tonight. I never cook as much as when I'm in someone else's kitchen. I would. I just don't. As with so many other things, I'm not as keen to do something wonderful in the absence of an audience. Even if it's just one. Applause is applause.

Upon seeing my new splash page, my mom, wrestling with the word "seductive," said, "It's very seduh...seduh...seduh...it's slutty."

When I get carded, some people look at my driver's license picture, with a twenty-two or twenty-three year-old Mary in a black dress with a white neckline, and they ask if I used to be a nun. Never mind that the photo exposes a nice enough set of collarbones and a dash of the ol' maquillage. Me with a smile and a hairband and a black and white dress equals nun. Maybe I'm just overcompensating.

I'm due for some wonderment, I think.

I knew I liked Sean Penn for a reason.

I wish I could have actually seen the ad Sean Penn placed in the Washington Post this past Friday. But I am satisfied to roll around in the hubbub it's created like so much currency or foliage -- luxuriating in it, scooping it up in great handfuls and letting it slip sensually through my fingers -- all in slow motion, of course, and preferably shot from above. I'm glad that successful Hollywood folk are proving that having enough money to do such things doesn't doom one to petty Republican selfishness. I'm glad Sean Penn is looking out for me and you and the innocent citizens of Iraq and the men and women of our armed forces as well as the warmongering profiteers out there. It's nice to see liberalism displaying such equanimity. And it's nice to see actors being more than just that. And eloquently so.

My sister asked me today how long I thought it would be before Madonna and Guy Ritchie split up. I hadn't given it any thought. Still haven't, actually. But I do think it's more likely that, if they do break up, it will be because Guy Ritchie is unable to comprehend how she ever let an enlightened dude like that get away.

Inhale Exhale Inhale Exhale

If I were the praying kind, I might seek out the intervention of the fellow upstairs this evening. I've had my fill of tumult for today. I spent the day oscillating between laughter and smiling. But then the rains came.

And I hope that HBO's Journeys with George is as horrifyingly amusing -- or amusingly horrifying -- as I expect it to be.

Amen.

Watch those pounds come off! Like magic!

I think it's high time I revealed my top secret food poisoning diet to the world *clutches gut and frowns humorously*.

I feel like three bucks.

Surprised by Garlic and Smelling of Smoke

It's getting chilly out there. So that us girls in our cropped black pants are wearing boots instead of strappy sandals and looking like Captain Kirk instead of Doris Day. I'll sleep with the heat on tonight. And a wool blanket that's as old as I am. Yes, that's right -- it's ONE HUNDRED years old. Good guess.

Today was a bit on the dreary side. I worked and counseled and played my violin and changed my outfit a few times. And wondered what it's like to captain a dogsled. It looks like fun, but I don't think dogsledding is for me. My lips are prone to chapping.

AMC had some sort of George C. Scott-a-thon going on yesterday. I caught a bit of The Flim Flam Man. I recall my father telling me that he saw it and that it was one of the funniest movies he'd ever seen. See, that's my dad for you. Not The Mask. Not Kentucky Fried Movie. Not Doctor Doolittle 2. But The Flim Flam Man, starring George C. Scott, is one of the funniest movies he's seen. And I'd guess that Modern Times is on that list, too. Oh, sure. You might argue that it's not good taste. You might say it's just because he's an old dude who doesn't "get" the comedy of our time. But no one laughs harder at Seinfeld than my dad. Even though he sometimes calls it "Shine-feld." I say my dad's got fine taste. When I played Amélie for him, he laughed plenty. I think my mom laughed more, but that's because it was in French. Movies in English seem to put her to sleep. When I took her to see Titanic, she fell asleep before the film came out of sepiatone in the opening credits. Then, when I asked her how she liked it, she scowled and said, "It was so boring." She also hates Star Trek because the alien races are all grotesque and ugly to her. But both of my parents love Benny Hill. Although my mom thinks he's German. There's no logic to any of it, clearly.

I've got a lot to do tomorrow. I don't like the sound of that.

What would YOU do for a Klondike Bar?

No, really. I want to know.

Lightbulbs were going out all around my apartment today. As if conspiring to get back at me for all the times I've smirked at the blind people trying to sell me discount replacement bulbs. In the irritating dimness of a half-lit room, I shake my fist.

Los Angeles has made me really love driving at night. When the roads are clear and the freeways are speedy and I can drive and ruminate and not keep my eyes locked on the brakelights of the car in front of me (I know you're not supposed to do that), I feel nearly at peace. I still wonder about all the buildings and what goes on inside of them, but I have less time to be consumed by it. They fly by faster when I'm breaking all manner of velocity laws.

I was once new here.

I've put the knives away.

My customer service woes are at an end for today. Only an hour or so ago, I thought I was going to either cry or have a heart attack or begin bleeding from the eyes. But the guy from the gas company finally showed up, so now I can heat a frying pan and bathe my tresses, and all is right with the world. It just goes to show you: there's no sense getting all worked up. Unless it makes people laugh when you tell them about it later.

And even though I was wearing my big XO Space Warrior sweatshirt and fuzzy slippers and had not showered or made-up pretty, he said -- in the course of mentioning that a little Asian makes for a nice mix, "Believe me. You're beautiful." Angel or masher? You be the judge.

"Laugh it up, fuzzball."

Here's something that has been making the rounds in my comedy group:

http://maddox.xmission.com/

Also, I am having the most maddening customer-service-should-be-buried-alive sort of morning. And now my upstairs neighbor is putting golf balls around on the hardwood floor above me. I wish there could be exacting of vengeance without arrival of law enforcement units. I'm the angriest half-Chinese girl in the world today.

Off to the Masque

I'm so pleased that window displays are all decked out in Halloween finery. I want to play dress-up.

"Singing in the bathub, bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh."

My dreams are starting to anger me. I'm afraid I'm going to turn into one of those street-corner weirdos, having a heated argument with my brain. If that happens, please don't give me money -- as much as you want to help. I'll just spend it on action figures. And then I'll have arguments with them.

Late Night Dog-Walking

Now, I have a sore, bruising fingernail that got squished when I was collapsing a mic stand. It seems the fates are conspiring to end my violin-playing. Or some other manually dextrous occupation yet to befall me.

It was a grey, grey day.

It is as if my life is what happens between naps.

I do a pocket-sized version of sleeping. Inspired by Travel Scrabble. And I am never fully awake. And I have so many dreams that it has become a source of great tedium to try and recount them or catalogue them in any way. Even if there may be shining jewels of insight and importance lurking in my thoughts about lunch and hovercrafts and burial mounds and things to carry books in. This is dismaying. As I am the sort of person who likes to keep track. I imagine the statistics will be important to me one day far in the future. I keep track of things no other person -- no sane person -- would bother to record. I keep everything. Everything. If you sent me an email once to tell me to turn on the TV because something interesting was on channel 6, I still have it. I'm not kidding.

So when computer problems or foolish decisions cause me to lose some piece of my recorded history, I fret and frown and imagine how valuable those data would one day be. Maybe I fear that I need the statistics to validate all this time. To prove that I was here. And that things happened to me. And because of me. And in spite of me. I always long to know more. About myself. About the people I care about. About the things they care about. About everything. And I'm never sure if it's rote hunger for it or if it's a useless compulsion -- a silly game of catch-up in a race that no one else is running.

In the beginning, I saved it all because I wanted to relive the memories that brought me delight. I wanted to be able to bask in mutual brilliance time and time again. Revisiting the discourse the way a child rereads a favorite story. It's comfortingly the same but tellingly different each time. It is history and present all at once. When the world around me is silent and unmoving, I revert to the memories of the velocity days. And in reliving, I make certain that no moment of mine will ever ever ever be silent or still. I have never known what to do with down time.

But even when the history began to show an unexpected ugliness, I didn't turn the recorder off. I have never been one to spare myself the anguish of reliving misery. It's how I keep balance.

Tonight, I was driving down a stretch of highway I seldom traverse. And it was dark and night and I could see a glittering white snake of bright lights seemingly coming from right out of the sky. Headlights coming down a hill. Just as they did years and years ago on a night when I was driving home on that highway -- racing to catch up with someone who was far behind me. Sometimes, there are things you find in memory that are worth finding. And finding them again and again only gives you more and more opportunities to discover the important truths that you missed. I get lots of chances to figure things out. Which is good, because obviously I need them.

"If you let me, I'll be so real for you."

I have cuts on my fingers from knives that were too sharp. And little stinging places on my heart from memories that were a bit prickly. I have slept all of ten hours in the past three nights. Maybe I'm just too fatigued to be working with knives or sitting for the cinema.

I had a busy day. I appreciate the numbness provided by industry.

There is more weeping in the world than you can ever know.

Yum-Yum

I made linguine carbonara tonight. You SO wish you were here.

Finders, Keepers.

I sometimes liken myself to that character Christopher Walken played in The Dead Zone, except that I get jarred by the clutches of sudden flashes of nostalgia -- which are not nearly as useful for gambling purposes. I was looking for something, and I found an old cassette tape of pre-show and intermission music from an improv and sketch comedy show I was in back around this time of year in 1998. It's the real reason I own a First Contact-era Star Trek engineering tunic. Honest.

They weren't the most glorious days, but they weren't the most awful. I was on my way to many things. And happy to applaud the exploits of the ones I loved. That was the year my family's house burned down. The year I spent the 4th of July in Lake Tahoe. The year I determined to finish my degree. The year I got audited by the IRS. The year I sprained my ankle stepping off a curb. The year I saw all three Indiana Jones movies in one day on the big screen (with a freshly sprained ankle). The year I moved into the apartment I never really liked. The year I got the smallest raise in the history of my career. I lost a friendship that year. And gained one. I struggled with a lot, but came out on top. That improv and sketch comedy show wasn't the best thing I ever did, but it wasn't the worst. And I worked hard at it. And did a lot of laser-printing for it. And painting. And folding. And got to wear a First Contact-era Star Trek engineering tunic. On stage.

That's what flashed into my consciousness when I found that cassette tape. If I had actually played it, I'm sure there would be more nostalgic carnage to wade through. After all, who doesn't have a huge nostalgic connection to The Popcorn Song?

When I remember 1998, the whole year is like October. I wonder why that is.

P.S. When my eyes are extra tired, I look like a Kennedy-era Asian starlet. I wonder if that's a bad thing.

"Can you even dye my eyes to match my gown? Jolly old town!"

I always marvel at how little actually happens in retrospect. When I've just come home from what seems like the capper to a full day, I take stock and scowl over the fact that I got so little done. Today, I actually placed tick marks next to quite a few list items. Including get a haircut, edit a holiday catalog, tidy up, have a few slingchis, and cruise around in an almost embarrassingly decadent SUV. I can even claim the icing of having made a minor fool of myself at the salon when I came out of the changing room wearing someone else's blouse instead of the provided smock. And all on three hours of sleep. An accomplishment extravaganza for some, to be sure. And yet, there's something still churning in me. A desire to do more. A near refusal to give in to sleep until I am spent from mastery and bleary-eyed from genius.

But who am I kidding.

Life could not better be. No sirrah sirrah sirree.

Penguins cry ice cube tears.

Too hot. Too cold. I'm mired in the extremes. So tired I know I won't sleep. Hungry but unmotivated by it. The weeks speed by and plod on endlessly. I can't seem to set my watch properly. I don't wear a watch, but that was a metaphor.

And there's never a shortage of ill-mannered neighbors who have no sense of what time it is.

Agendafication

Today, I will deliver sound editorial advice, fine corporate entertainment, and courteous motorist behavior. I'm getting an early start. For a moment, I thought I heard a schoolbus laboring up the hill, and I was charmed. But it turned out to be a big flatbed trailer towing a backhoe. I think the kids are already in class. Which goes to show how late my version of early has become. Allergic, I'm off to complete the task of getting dressed.

Lady Lazarus

My friends make lovely promises and reassurances to me. The sort of thing a hopeful girl can cling to. I have been a stalwart encourager for most of my years. It's a gift to be on the receiving end of it every now and then.

Everything will return to glorious technicolor, breath-taking cinemascope, and stereophonic sound.

Cartoon Rewards

It's already been a 17 hour day for me. A big, fat, full, productive day. I get in this habit of wanting to break records, though. I'm quite tired, but I catch myself wondering if I should just try and stay up and do more. It's not like it will kill me.

Bugs Bunny at the bull fights reminds me that I love Bugs Bunny all over the place. And I love how the Looney Tunes make use of great works of classical music in their scores. Ravel's Bolero and Rossini's Il Barbieri di Seviglia create pictures in my head that I'm sure the composers never intended. Carl Stalling is my hero.

I am comforted by the consistency of Bugs Bunny always winning. You never see Bugs changing jobs or considering going on anti-depressants or worrying about paying his rent. That dude never breaks a sweat. I like that. Oh, sure, occasionally you catch him in drag, but it's only for the sake of putting one over on Elmer or Daffy or Yosemite Sam. He's not REALLY confused in that way.

I just had this thought: "Who cares what I think?"

Transference

It's entirely possible that I have been watching too much of programs like Six Feet Under -- programs that give the imagination license to believe that the negotiations that execute themselves in one's mind might actually take on some theatrically obvious form. Metaphor turns into masquerade. The tangible is no longer significant. My mind is anxious to be given license to pretend that such things can be.

I was haunted by a ghost, today. A specter. A person I could see standing there just as clearly as I could see that no one was standing there. And I carried on conversations with my vision. Just like your average crazy person or abuser of hallucinogens.

It got me nowhere. Or only as far as those one-sided discussions I have when I'm driving or standing in front of a mirror ever get me. Which is to say that it got me to a place where I had to ask myself if normal people do this. I do give the appearance of talking to myself a lot -- if anyone's watching. But I'm usually actually talking to someone. It's just someone who isn't there to hear what I have to say. And sometimes I get enough catharsis from just saying what I would without ever having to have my words heard. It's the utterance that works for me. While it also protects me from confrontation and the unavoidable disappointment of interruption that is the cornerstone of actual discourse.

If only I could ever get my thoughts to run as clear as they seem when I'm about to say what I'm about to say. Instead, I plan and purge and hope for profound ideas to show themselves, only to find that I'm addressing everyone from the center of a giant muffling cottonball. And whether they can understand me clearly or not, the truth is there are people I talk to who don't really want to hear what I'm saying in the first place.

I grow weary of postcard people and lunch menu friendships and storybook princes and comic book lovers. Particularly when the nametags get shuffled around and I can't tell who's who.

Drawing Out

Six Feet Under works on my emotions in much the same way that those Bioré pore strips are supposed to work on blackheads.

Advance the Shears!

Everyone is getting haircuts. It's making me want to be a copycat. I haven't had a proper haircut for so long. And I'm tired of sitting on my hairstyle. That seems like overkill. And I mean that quite literally. My hair is long enough to be sat upon.

I remember when I cut my hair from extra long to extra short one summer before starting at a new school (one where I had to wear a snappy little Catholic schoolgirl uniform, no less), and I had collected this heap of fashion mag clippings. Mostly of Isabella Rossellini. And this blonde model named Deirdre something who used to do the ads for Free Hold mousse before they made it smell bad. I wanted my hair short short short. And I got it. And everything in-between.

I think I'm done with being attached to record-setting and superlative-gathering. Welcome to the age of self-reinvention...

Road Rage Reprise

Today, driving south on the 405, I was forced to plod through another bout of ultra-slow traffic. At some point, I realized that the slowing was being caused by a mass of people heading to the Verizon Amphitheater to see Jimmy Buffett. Jimmy Buffett. Jimmy Buffett? Who's going to see Jimmy Buffett? I mean really.

Unlike my experience earlier this week, I wasn't feeling so benevolent about the well-being of the people involved. I distinctly heard myself think, "Jimmy Buffett had better be dead at the front of all of this."

Once the speed picked up again, I passed a man driving an old, brown sedan with no driver's side door on it at all. The driver was jolly, wearing fireman-like yellow coveralls and a red cable-knit sweater. He was smiling the way you would on a parade float. As if he knew that many eyes were on him. And I imagine he was right.

Wonders will never cease. Officially.

Someone wrote a song for me. I'm tickled pink.

The lyrics even have my name in them. Surname and all. I'm laughing inside and out.

"Take it from me; I love you."

I feel as if today was a series of days. Starting with the expectation of early morning things that were rattling in my brain before I even drifted off to sleep last night, with some vintage George Carlin playing on the Home Box Office. And then each two-hour increment seemed like a day of its own. Like the prime time television version of an actual day. I am never as prone to lose track of time as when I have complete freedom to piss it away. That's when the hours start to blur together. And suddenly it's the next day. Or the weekend. And suddenly it's hard to remember how long it's been since the last time you asked yourself how long it's been.

It's a good thing the earth isn't flat. Otherwise I might find myself driving right off the end of it while waiting for the idiots at Cingular to come through with my driving directions. It would take less time for me to whittle a sextant and homemade satellite locator out of the petrified french fries under the seats in my car and divine my course with those crude instruments than it takes for the man-chimp on the other end of the phone to type in my destination and figure out how to get me there. And by the time he tells me where to make my next turn, I've long since passed that turn and the cycle begins again. At times, I hear so much rustling paper and whimpering frustration through the hands-free earpiece that I picture the guy unfolding a paper map of California and hoping that Wilshire Boulevard is big enough to show up on the state scale. And then in the next go round, I can almost hear him shaving the head of a nearby co-worker, hoping to find the answers to my navigation queries tattooed on his scalp. By the third attempt, I think he was actually praying. But the god of turn-by-turn driving directions must have been busy being roasted at the Friars Club. And you can't really blame him. I'd turn my back on the lost, too, if I had a chance to hear Alan King make vulgar remarks about my mother. And what about Jeffrey Ross? That guy rocks the roast. I hope I can book him to do a few minutes at my funeral. No one in attendance will appreciate it, but that's the beauty of it, really.

"I long for the days they used to say, 'Ma'am,' and , 'Yes, sir.'"

I have been feeling this incredible burst of musical creativity. Creativity. It's weird to think of that. I always used to see my violin as an implement for interpreting. But never creating. All of a sudden, I am making things entirely new and feeling a kind of confidence and enthusiasm and curiosity that is sort of heavenish. I am playing with more confidence and a sense of belonging. And I like it. I also have marvelous acoustics in my apartment. That makes it all the more difficult to resist the urge to play all the time. Even if it's just a way of getting back at my upstairs neighbors for putting golfballs around on the wood floors in the wee hours.

Sometimes I worry that I am just going through the motions. I didn't indulge myself too shamelessly today. I made sacrifices. I fulfilled the wants of others. I juggled. Like I do. But I have also not yet found that balance between getting everything you want and giving everything you can. It's always a bit confusing for me because what I want most of the time is to be giving more. And that spoils the whole equation.

I still wish I was a ballroom dancer. I'm sure I'll always wish that.

The highway is a place of mystery.

I was stuck in gut-wrenching, toe-curling, groan-invoking traffic today. It took me forty minutes to go less than a mile. While I was mostly sitting still in my lane, there was a big trailer truck to the right of me, and I was taking note of how low the trailer was. Those trucks are nowhere near high enough off the ground to permit things like that scene in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, where the Griswolds' station wagon ends up lodged beneath one on the way to the Christmas tree farm, to ever happen in real life. When I got to the site of the delaying incident, I saw a dark red passenger car wedged under the trailer of a very similar truck, all scrunched and facing diagonally and mostly in the wrong direction. It looked as if it had been kicked in there by the foot of god. The scene was a mess, but I distinctly found myself hoping that no one had died. Under normal circumstances, when subjected to such a monstrous delay, I have been known to think that someone had better be dead up at the front of all of this. This had better not be the result of a boxful of kittens getting loose in the slow lanes and paralyzing drivers with their cuteness. There had better be bloodshed when I get up there. But today, I didn't feel that way at all. I hoped no one died on the 405 today. It was a pretty day. The sun was warm on my jeans. I had the company of good music and no great rush to be anywhere immediately. I invited other motorists to merge in in front of me. I was grateful when other motorists allowed the same with me. It was a good-natured hullaballoo, and I was fine with it.

And once I was through it, the road was clear nearly all the way home. I went flying along the mostly empty lanes, sort of wishing I was in a convertible with a long scarf tied in my hair and big 1960s sunglasses on my face. But then I remembered the story of Isadora Duncan and how much I hate how grimy my skin feels when I've been driving in a convertible and I was content to blast the air conditioning and the music and speed for home.

He's still my president.

I was mesmerized by Bill Clinton on C-SPAN this morning, addressing the British Labour Party Conference in Blackpool. He is a sight for sore eyes. Eyes sore from looking at George W. Bush behind a podium that sports the Presidental Seal, to be candid. Bill Clinton is such an easy and engaging speaker. Just a big chunk of charisma and clever, articulate wisdom. He is casual and charming. Astute and affable. Both serious and humorous. He is tough on the current administration. And quick to point out their attempts to dismantle the accomplishments of his administration. He is ironic without being snide. Self-congratulatory without being snarky. I don't care what anyone says: Bill Clinton is leadership material. And he speaks my mind. And he speaks it without stumbling or bumbling or having other people say it for him. He is, off the cuff, a more dynamic figure than his successor could be with the help of CGI mastering. I liked my life better when he was president.

I look at him now -- his hair gone completely white and a little extra puffiness showing up beneath his eyes -- and I feel as if we have been through a great deal together. It's comforting.

Tony Blair, on the other hand, is beginning to look like Nosferatu. I cast no aspersions on his policy-making, but he's going positively elven as the years track on. All the same, I'm on the side of the ones who are right. Just like we all say we are.

Dark and Dastardly

I love the rain. Even when I've just washed my car. Even when I have to go out in it. Even when I have to go out in it and am wearing suede. Even when it's hot rain. Even when it's icy rain. I love it when the air is filled with it. It's akin to being a fish. Being in the water and still able to breathe. It causes you to squint and tuck in and fold your arms and hurry. I especially like the hurrying part. It causes you to notice the windowpanes. It makes the wind sound melodic. It makes soup taste better. It gives you an excuse to curl up under a blanket. It smells like cherries when it's cold. Like the inside of a closet when it's hot. It tastes like nothing. It spoils mascara and ruins hairdos. It causes tires to kick up a fizzy-sounding wake.

And it washes it all away.

And then it's gone. Like a good Samaritan.

I am cold and tingly. I can hear crickets. I imagine they are longing for the rain, too.

Girls with guitars. Well, stringed instruments, anyway.

I was in the middle of a phone interview when my tire blew out on the freeway today. Harrowing. Remembering some advice from a friend who is a fireman and paramedic, I decided to improve my chances of survival, sacrifice my rim, and ride the shredded rubber off the freeway, where I changed my tire mostly by myself and got my hands very dirty. When I got back into the car, I saw my reflection in the rearview mirror. I had a big smudge of black on my nose. It was sort of endearing. The obvious touch -- like putting cake flour on your face to make it look like you've been cooking. The costume version of enduring trauma. The cartoon post-brawl blemish that is interpreted as crosshatching on the cheek. (Since when does a landed punch result in a pound sign?) If I wasn't so averse to having roadfilth on my face, I might have left it there for fun. A two-hour drive turned into a five-hour event. But it didn't seem to affect my playing. I waited until I'd left the diminutive stage to reward myself with a Boddington's. Shakespeare's has a giant yellow barrel with the Boddington's logo painted on it. I want that barrel. In my apartment. Now.

Lots of friends came to see me play tonight, but most of them missed the actual set. Still, it was nice to receive squeezy hugs through warm sweaters and laugh and drink gift cocktails. As much as I question everything, I'm beginning to see the distinction between aimlessness and aiming for many, many targets.

It's a good thing I wore black today.

Hide and Seek. Lost and Found.

I had to go back the next day, because I left my credit card at the bar. The two best mojitos ever made me forget. Simple syrup is the secret, and it always has been.

Some people don't realize that La Marseillaise has words. Those people should be fired out of a cannon.

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.

Déjà

I don't feel good. It's not unfamiliar.

Improper Gifts

Fortunately, I will never be forced to secede from a senate race because of the gifts I have accepted. I can feel free to receive painstakingly made CDs and songs written just for me and the occasional piece of digital art and poems and compliments and free drinks at bars one would never expect to allow such things and gourmet comestibles for sharing with my father. And no one in the Pork Lobby need bat an eyelash. I am still quite supportive of pork. Even if those guys never buy me anything.

I give out plenty of gifts of my own. And they have little to no effect on the laws of the land. Me and my impotent, ineffectual gift ideas.

The Mystery of a Child's Desires

I'm curious what child begged his mother for just one more spin on the mechanical turkey...

Saturday night is placenta night. Ladies get in free.

Occasionally, I am someone I can admire. From time to time, I come through. The satisfaction in that is worth a thousand nights of wishing I had just not bothered.

It tastes like Halloween.

"Do I Not Bleed?"

It seems at times that I am a magnet for cruel little sharp objects that tear at me and draw blood. I attract them. So much so that it seems unfair that my indignance should eventually turn warlike. There is much that can be endured. But there is no reason for it. I tire of enduring. For the love of a balanced diet, give me a break.

When they come from anything but laughter or movie magic, tears are wasted.

Cranberry World

New music. A new soundtrack for my little life. Nightmares. Lots of them. Dizzy with the heat. Startled by the cold. Facing great changes. And decisions. Who is this responsible girl who never had time not to be? To come home. To come down. To come off it all. I could make a religion of all this business.

It's good to clean things out every once in a while. You'd be amazed the things you find.

"But your lips when we speak are the valleys and peaks of a mountain range on fire."

With a bit of fog in the sky, all the lights above the highway looked as if they were floating -- suspended and disconnected in a way that made me wish my car could fly. Or at least hover. It would have been nice to put some distance between me and the ground. I would have skipped along beside those lights and taken notice of the fact that I preferred the yellows to the greens.

"You must be using potions. How else could you tie my head to the sky?"

Coming over the top of a hill, trees and lampposts and other structures interrupted the light from the headlights of a car in the drive-through. It might as well have been a scene from X-Files as a scene from suburbia, replete with late-night fast food options. I preferred pretending it was what it wasn't.

"Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth."

Am I coming home or leaving it? I never can tell.

"I'm looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find."

I have always been something of an outsider. Welcome but in polite fashion. And I often wondered if it was something in me that fabricated the distance. Or if it was just that I was looking for closeness that could not be cultivated in the fields at my feet. I have looked for closeness and found something like it. Is it possible for one person to be close and the other to be far away? It seems as if it couldn't be managed, and yet it makes perfect sense to me. The tingly touch of a genuine kindness is likely to seem like less in the aftermath. I wonder if anything I am looking for is real. If anything I believe in deserves it. If I am anything I think I am. And I chastise myself for the waste of time of it all. The wondering doesn't put food on the table. If only I could sell my fears.

"I recall the sunshine as you were melting."

I immerse myself in the genius of others. And something vicarious takes place. The words are precious to me. But I can't tell if I am pretending to say them or pretending to hear them. It's pivotal to know the difference.

"I'm through with riddles. I know we're little. Just help me feel warm inside."

I have grown dizzy with turning points. Changing my direction so many times over that I can't tell how many times I've been facing in the same direction. I trek forward with the guidance of stars that never keep their place. And sometimes it's misty out. In the dark, I feel myself swelling. In the absence of the scrutiny of truth, I can surpass myself and never know that illusions are nocturnal creatures.

"And though the comedy softens the fall, we still fall short."

I don't know how to sit still. I don't know how I've managed to do it for so long. It was involuntary. I am a bullet with blurred edges. But I would compromise my trajectory for a warm, cushioned spot where sitting still makes perfect sense. Instead, I am antsy. Itchy with goosebumps. Aware of the cold of autumn and all that comes with the dying of the leaves. The only way to thrive when winter is on the landing is to know where you keep that bit of summer you always carry with you. That's why it's smart not to change handbags too often.

"Oh, what on earth would make a man decide to do that kind of thing?"

I always liked the idea of going somewhere. It gives you a reason to sharpen your senses. You have to make lists and remember not to forget things. You have to think ahead and plan for the unexpected. You have to consider the impossible. And sometimes, you get to carry your important documents around in a phony leather billfold with disclaimers printed on the inside. That's a nice touch.

"Did it just seem like a good idea at the time?"

You get lots of free things when you travel. That's nice, too. I used to keep all those free, miniaturized, logo-branded things. For a rainy day, you know. And I used to expect that getting there would be all of the fun. No contest. Simultaneously, I always struggled with motion sickness, and travel was often a misery. My mom would have to try and sneak Dramamine into my food because the pills were so bitter, I couldn't swallow them. (Note: They're just as bitter when you hide them in the middle of a hot dog.)

"Won't the folks back home be jealous?"

But that's the peculiar part of it. Travel often caused me suffering, but I had a very short memory for it. And no amount of sickness or misery ever prevented me from wanting to go again. Children are like that. Some grown-ups, too. They can find a reason to laugh when the tears are still wet on their cheeks. Pain passes into history like ice cubes dissolving in milk. Doctors count on it. When they give a child a shot, they assure them it will only hurt for a moment. And it's not as if those children come back and hunt the doctor down in their adulthood so they can whack him on the arm with a piece of wood just to show him how it feels. They forget. He is right when he tells them it'll be over before they know it. That's how we're made.

Time to hit the trail.

Sapporo Delights

The Japanese continue to thrill me with their confections and libations and packaging genius. Tonight, I drank something called Gabunomi Fruits Milk whose label reads "Apple+Orange+Pineapple&Milk" with an accompanying visual equation. It's a cute image, although the pineapple shouldn't be the same size as the apple and the orange. That's what you get when you live in a country where fresh fruit costs so much that you can only see it in books and museums and educational filmstrips. Similarly, I have no idea how to draw diamonds, gold nuggets, or crude oil.

Such is the life I lead now. Thrilled by bizarre ingestibles. Laboring long into the night. Wondering what's on television at this hour. Noticing that it's getting colder by the day. Fearing my eventual descent into the abyss. Soon, I'll be a vampire for sure. A vampire who quenches her bloodlust with fruity milk drinks and has freckles on her nose, but a vampire nonetheless.

When I was driving back from Burbank, I realized I was not in a hurry. It was a nice feeling. No number of iterations of the green light on which I could never turn left could dissuade me from my complacency. Today, I was patience incarnate.

"It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing."

Wishes are for silly girls and hapless romantics. I will never have anything by merely wishing for it. I know that.

I remember how I used to write song lyrics in my journal in high school. I wanted so much to be writing, but it was just moving of the pen. I couldn't find words of my own. Instead, I found the right words in other people's mouths and usurped them. I remember that one year as a time when I lost the ability to say anything original.

Murder and Mayhem in a Traveling Circus

Murder and mayhem in a traveling circus. Spiny carnival lettering. Even the bearded lady is so beautiful she sparkles. It's all green and glittery, like a lovely lizard lady. It's not such a great distance between a pretty girl and a freak.

Gingerbread Houses

I see the world all icing-colored and candy-coated. It's a pretty, storybook place where dresses never get dirty and endings are always happy.

Facts About Me

I don't like shorthand.
I don't abbreviate.
I try to take the long way home.

It's in the genes.

Yesterday, in the news, there was a story about a Chinese restaurant owner who was arrested after poisoning the water supply of a rival restaurant with arsenic in a fit of jealous rage.

"That's the way it crumbles, cookie-wise."

A few weeks ago, I was experiencing premature anxiety about how everything would fit into this weekend. But then the landscape changed. Everything flattened out a bit, and voilà! -- there was room for it all. I can still lay fair claim to a somewhat threadbare feeling in the aftermath. But there was so much in each day that I was challenged to keep track. And, for me, that's really saying something.

There is so much in each day. In many ways, it's just like old times. I can't mark the exact moment, but I have a memory of slowing down to enable speeding up. It's like handling a sharp turn. I prefer to keep the wheels from squealing. I prefer to harness momentum and keep inertia in check. I was a physics major once upon a time.

There is so much in these days. There's no time for second-guessing or hesitation or fear. No. Fear is a luxury. I'm trying to reign in my spending.

I've got a lot on my plate. And I've got a plate as big as China. You do the math.

P.S. I love it when new pants fit!

P.P.S. I don't love it when new t-shirts smell as if they have been stored in an airtight room with an open bottle of Elmer's Glue.

Remembrance is mine.

I don't know what today will mean or what it will hold. I know it causes some hearkening back. I know the memories flood in even more acutely than when I'm just having my normal flood of acute memories. I know that -- more than anything -- I am examining the significance of the year that has gone by. Not just the day that was.

I remember what I wore. I remember where I went. I remember what I ate. I remember each hour passing.

But that's no different than nearly any other day. I have a memory rivaled only by trained professionals and crazy people. I have the sort of memory that makes one wish it was easier to forget.

When we are strange.

Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of myself, and I am struck: Is this what I really look like? Is that really me? Sometimes it's a face I can't quite remember. The edges are different. The bones protrude a bit more. The expression is a bit more arch. The jaw is set more sternly. Or more softly. Sometimes I'm not sure I know what I used to look like. Or what I look like today. Sometimes everything seems altogether unfamiliar.

Hello, Retrospection.

So ends my first summer in Los Angeles. One arm slightly tanner than the other. My hair lighter than it's ever been. A heap of pictures and mementos and credit card receipts and the sort of garbage I am reluctant to throw away. Memories were made.

From here on out, I predict a cooling trend. Soon, I'll be using my fireplace again. I welcome that. And I'll be throwing an extra blanket on the bed and wearing my cozy, leopard-print slippers around the house. Soon I'll be keeping candles burning and wishing I had soup. And then it will be summer again.

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

Full Lips. Wide Hips. Tall Ships.

There was a picture in my head. A great port with a drift of haze looming over dark blue waters, tipped in chalky foam. Billowing sails on staggered masts. A web of rope and iron. They sailed for the docks in fleet formation. The men on deck shouted to one another, but no voices could be heard. A girl standing on the harbor, feet wide apart, hands thrust in pockets, shoulders turned just so, into the chilling wind, with hair blowing and eyes slitted -- was it me? It was.

There are places I go in cold medicine-induced slumber that I may never see.

Watching the Wheels

I drove a lot today. It was beautiful out. Balmy and beautiful and inviting. I sometimes forget how cool it gets when you're right on the ocean. I was driving southward, and I thought for a moment that I might have gone further than I intended and that I might suddenly find myself a great distance out of my way. But I also realized that I didn't mind. There was no urgency. I might actually have just been driving for the sake of it. Which is something I seldom do anymore. Years ago, I used to volunteer to take the movies back or run to the store for eggs or do any number of unrewarding errands just so I could have an excuse to be driving. My stupid little white car made me feel mighty back then. Like I was going somewhere.

I saw a lot of people who looked happy today. I couldn't see any reason for them to be. But they were, just the same. And it occurred to me that my ideas about what should make a person happy might be completely implausible. They could be false, lifted from the pages of an adolescent novel, yellowed by years of disuse. I might have confused them with something entirely different. Maybe that's why I often return to the metaphor of the bony fingers of happiness closing around my throat.

You can't always get what you want. You aren't always smart enough to want what you've got. You seldom know you're on to something until it's passed you by. You're never as good as you wanted to be.

The Longest Day

I am taxed to the point of breaking. It has been a long, industrious day with many good things in it and many things else. I wish I was made of butter and jam. That way I could lick my arm and have a pleasant taste in my mouth.

It's raining again.

There's just the hint of a sprinkle outside. It's warm and damp. The ground smells sweet. It still gives off faint traces of the heat of the day. That hot, dirty smell of moisture on asphalt and sidewalk and soil. It's only when I feel the tiny droplets on my upturned face that I realize how much I have longed for it.

In the mirror on my desk, I can see my face, dewy with humidity, flush with late summer heat. Hair tucked behind my ears, I look like I did when I was a child. Shiny, pink cheeks often sore from laughing. Freckles across the nose. That outdoor smell in my hair. The recent memory of climbing trees. The taste of rain on my tongue.

Last night, I saw stars in the night sky above West Hollywood. Stars in L.A., you ask? You bet.

Things that go " " in the night

Awakened by silence. That's a raw deal. Silence and the knowledge that it's okay for me to be up because I'm in charge of it all. I have to be careful. I'm still trying to carry off the illusion of ordrinariness. I'm just like you. I'm just like you. I'm just like you...

Report Card

It has officially been a year since I started writing here. If you count the initial test message. It took me a couple of days to actually come up with something to say. But since that time, I have come to these pages and found a friend, in a way. The sort that would listen no matter how many times I seemed to be saying the same thing. A constant, transient friend who would be with me wherever the red lights were flashing. I have appreciated it. Being one who treasures archival, I am glad to have been able to keep track of the passage of things.

When I was a young girl in ponytails, my teachers would write home to my parents and tell them I was too eager and too talkative -- that I needed to give the other kids a chance to answer. It was a strange thing to teach. To tell someone to hide herself. To keep silent and mediocre in favor of socialization. I don't know that it was such a smart bargain. It didn't net me such a grand or vast catch of pals. There were still those whom I managed to intimidate or alienate. The ones who would roll their eyes at each other when I would use a big word. I always preferred the ones who cottoned to me in spite of myself. Those who were secure enough -- or perhaps insecure enough -- to be able to befriend in the absence of competition.

You grow into yourself. You get comfortable in your own skin. And then you quickly grow out of it. The trick is to be paying attention during that brief, brief stretch when it all feels right and you haven't a fear in the world. Sometimes, it comes more than once. But it's a good idea to try and catch it on the first go round.

Happy birthday, blog. I'm glad we made it.

These are days that hurt

Scratchy fingernails and headaches and sunburns and creaky bones. All of it seems amplified when it's warm out and there are people outside doing work in their yards. I wish I had been made better.

Wishes granted and lines rehearsed

Hello. I survived. The week begins. A new school year for some people. A new season. A new page on the calendar. Everything new. Or everything the same. Whatever I choose. However I see it. I didn't know it was going to be like this. I didn't know anything at all. I didn't know what sort of homecoming I would have. Or that there would be a home to come home to. It all changed when I wasn't looking, and I was thrown.

Now, instead of looking in any direction, I'm standing stock still with eyes screwed tightly shut. And I'm finding that I was wrong about as many things as I was right about. And that neither case was better than the other. I felt myself falling backwards into the arms of someone who wasn't there. I landed badly.

You never seem to forget song lyrics. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

I've missed the starry skies at night.

There's something reassuring about being able to see that there is a whole universe still out there, unobscured by city lights and urban haze. It's nice to know there are still quiet places. Many of these places are dismayingly close to a strip mall that has a T.G.I.Friday's in it, but it's on the other side of a hill, so you can pretend it isn't true.

I don't think I like discovering things about myself. So much of the time, it's something I wish wouldn't be true. Something that makes me self-conscious or ashamed. So much of the time, it's something I can't change. Or wouldn't know how to. I don't think I like being able to sum myself up in a few stark phrases. I take things too personally. I get hung up on what's fair and unfair. My hair is much lighter than I ever thought. I would hate to think that's all anyone would ever need know about me. I would hate to think it's all I am or all that has ever been true about me.

I look up at cloud-streaked night skies, filled with stars and cool and possibility, and I know that I can't have seen it all. I know there are dimensions beyond it, pieces I'm missing. I know there's more to learn. More to know. I just hope that that includes me. I hope that my story hasn't been written yet. That it's just in the planning phases. And that it won't close on opening night.

I received praise for my rapping skills tonight. In my book, that's a hoot.