Terminus.

I am still fascinated by the story of the Titanic. I watch scientific dissections of everything that is believed to have happened. I read books about it. I feel a similar fondness for other stories of tragedy at sea. There is something so desperate and isolated about the idea of encountering a catastrophe or a crisis out in the middle of the great ocean. The realization that you can scream, and no one will hear you. You can die, and no one will find you. You can press on or give up. No one will be the wiser. You can't conquer the sea. You can't even get it to take notice of you.

I'm not a child of the sea, per se. I might used to have been. I have almost always lived in port cities. And I have been in a few boats. But I'm no seafarer. I don't know the first thing about sailing. And I don't like to open my eyes in salt water. But there is a romance -- an allure -- to the endless crashing of the waves. The limitless froth. The fishy funk. The deep parts. The shallow parts. The living things. The skeletons. The way the sun sets and rises against an ocean horizon. When I can feel that salt air on my skin and in my hair, I dream of going places. For long stretches of time. I think of explorers and pirates and fancy people with their mass of trunks. I think of having a cabin to myself on a vast ship and calling it home for weeks.

But I don't think that manner of cruise is to be had anymore. Not unless boorish American people aren't allowed at all. The sea is no longer the luxurious route to take. Only honeymooners and retirees and single women in their middle age seem to flock to the harbor anymore. And I want a grand ocean voyage. Not a stint on the Love Boat. I want to look at the crew and not think to myself that their uniforms are silly and fraudulent. I want dinner to have all manner of fancy things to choose from. Not your choice of Chinese or Cajun chicken salad. I want to buy in.

I'm a fan of the journey. One day, when people are taking long trips to the moon and manmade cities on Mars or floating space stations with artificial gravity, I'll want to go and come back. Just for the journey's sake. I might stop for a postcard. And a Starbuck's. Which they're sure to have. But then I'll just go smooth my hair a bit and restock on reading fodder and get myself buckled in and ready for the in-flight safety instructions. I am such a great fan of anticipation. Long trips just offer me the chance to stretch the feeling out. Sometimes, arrival is just an inconvenience. I'll put off the arrival for as long as I can, thanks. Once you get there, you just have to set the clock back to zero and start over. Why rush to that?

I have never been far out in the middle of an inky black ocean in the dead of night. I will do that one day.

This is why I love George Foreman.

"One thing about being a power puncher, boy, when you got that power, all you gotta do is use it. But if you don't have the power, you just don't have it."

I am going to work to integrate this wisdom into my life on a daily basis. That George Foreman. He knows more than just grilling.

"That's why you should never say that big guys should be matched with big guys. Some small guys are really the big guys."

How true it is.

Also, Wladimir Klitschko is hot. I hope he mops the floor with Lennox Lewis.

And this has nothing to do with tonight's fight, but the HBO guys were talking about Evander Holyfield's career, and they showed a clip from his fight against Hasim Rahman in which a head butt left Rahman with a grapefruit-sized hematoma above the left eye. Gross. I was going to post a picture, but I don't ever want to see it again.

"Because it was there."

A reasonable explanation for why mountains get climbed. Not so convincing an explanation for why a gigantic piece of pumpkin pie got eaten.

A shiny, glinting thing is forever.

Now, why do they use a cross-screen filter for the wide shots at a boxing match?

I have not gotten nearly enough done today. I'm angry about that. But maybe I'm just in the decompression chamber for a spell. After all, I did nearly rewrite my next chapter completely.

As such things go, I wonder which chapter I'm officially on now.

The main event tonight pits the big Ukrainian guy who grew up in Russia against the guy who got started boxing while he was in prison and now sleeps in an oxygen tent to promote stamina. I don't care which one of them wins, but if one of them had a robot arm or had been to outer space, this would make a compelling movie of the week. I approve of properties that give me an excuse to make popcorn at home.

Awe into envy. Admiration into despair.

A production designer being interviewed in a documentary about Stanley Kubrick made a comment about the difficulty involved with the intellectual justification of one's creativity. I was distinctly moved by that. I think that is often of greater interest to me than the creative act itself. It may be a luxury to search for shadows of reason in things that burst through the stubborn membrane between idea and reality. Why do I think this? Why do I want it? What does it say? What will they see or hear? What of this is me? I like asking questions. I especially like asking questions that can't be answered. Discussion for discussion's sake. The dig over the find.

Stanley Kubrick is such an anomaly. His career seems a study in exceptions. He's a keen representation of the brand of accomplishment I have always aspired to but have never really thought myself capable of.

It makes me feel small and meek and slightly hopeless to consider all that was wrought by those I admire. My, but I've got to get busy.

Brilliant and passionate people. That's who I keep in my secret locket. That's the reflective surface on which I measure myself. To be inspired. To be urged. To be shown how much more can be asked and expected. There's no gift I treasure more.

Proverbs are for patsies.

I think I may have gotten this whole "early to bed, early to rise" business switched around. If I keep racing the dawn home, I'll turn into a pumpkin for sure. A liny-faced, grey-haired, droopy-eyed, stoop-shouldered pumpkin.

Old Habits

I'm in my knee boots again. Red and black. My drama colors. I may be in for drama. Or the blank stare of a white room. I nearly had a nervous breakdown zipping the boots up. The little leather siding got caught in the zipper, and I couldn't get it up or down. "But I have to LEAVE!" I cried in the privacy of my addled brain. Eventually I succeeded in freeing the zipper. There is a sore spot on the side of my finger from the ordeal. I want to feel like a champ today. I want to be less sorry all the time. I want to live in a big house with my dearest friends. Well, no, that's not true. But I would like to live nearer to them.

Agonist

As I suspected. No peace. And never the comfort of secure confidence that I am ever doing the right thing. My mother offered the following wisdom: "You know, it's always easier to make these decisions when you have a partner to share the burden." I wanted to plunge my head into the food processor. But of course, the container is too small. I would only have ended up tangling my hair.

Last night was no good. I make no predictions for tonight.

I am trying not to worship sentiment or to look back at calendars past. I am trying to live this December 6 as if there has never been another December 6 before it. I hope that all the days will begin to take on that blank character.

If you are someone who has failed me or wounded me or handed me a box of tears for Christmas, you are in good company today.

And if you handed me a box of tears for Christmas when I specifically requested Nuts and Chews, you should be required to celebrate your Christmas in a closet with the lights off.

An itch in the eye

I wish the decision fairy would visit me tonight and tap my head with a sparkly, star-topped wand and bid me awaken with clarity and certainty and a sure sense of what to do.

Instead, I will likely be visited by nasty memorial dreaming and false starts and the morning song of the garbage fellows.

Well, best get to it.

"Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever could."

It's hard work. All of this. Getting it together. Keeping it together. Sometimes I feel as if I am keeping my world from collapsing through sheer force of will. And I fear that, if I relax or turn away for a moment, it will all come crashing in. I fall behind constantly. I give myself more reasons to feel the opposite of pleased. And I have no one to blame but me.

I get caught in that oscillation -- between wanting to be bright and sunny and forgiving and friendly and wanting to be dark and dank and brooding and gloom-clothed. I have no idea if one of those is my natural state. It is always a choice. Always always. Like deciding to wear a blue sweater or a black one.

I can't help chastising myself. Concluding that I deserve whatever I get. Remnants of a childhood with a lot of scolding in it. I was never the one who thought I deserved more. And I got what I asked for.

For a girl with such small hands, I have a remarkable inability to let go.

One day, I'll fly away.

On the whole

Some friends will tell you what you need, but they will be wrong. They will be friends who don't really know or understand you. They will suggest that it's easy to stop feeling the way you do. Or they will tell you that there are quick fixes and shortcuts to take. They will say, "Look forward!" And they will not be looking you in the eye when they say it. Because if they were, they would see the dismay there. And the whole "not buying into it" thing. No one can tell you what will fix it or how you should feel or what you should be thinking. And the friends who don't see you for what you really want and who you really are and what you are really on your way to will never step on board.

It's not only about who or what makes you feel good right now. Sometimes it's about how you are made to feel good. And why that is.

You've got to live. Sure, you do. But what's living, really? Is it mac and cheese and your favorite sitcom? Is it a night out on the town? Is it the finished product? Is it the right smile? The right nod? The no that becomes yes? The yes that becomes no? It's not just the pumping of blood and air and the time that passes in tandem. It's something more. Surely.

And don't listen to the cats who tell you not to let it get you down without suggesting why. Sometimes it's good to let it get you down. Sometimes down is the place to be. It certainly paints gold stars on up once you get there.

And this will all sound like bloody nonsense to anyone not currently residing within one of my brain lobes. Good luck and good night.

"You turned my nighttime into day."

I was listening to an old favorite from the 80s section of my musical memoirs, and I came across that popular metaphor of a perfect love coming in and turning all the lights on or turning night into day. I don't think I'm looking for someone to do that. I think I'm more interested in finding someone who's willing to sit quietly in the dark with me. You can see more stars that way. And all your other senses get heightened when you can't see. For instance, your sense of irony. Your sense of failure. Your sense of impending doom. Ask any blind person.

Speaking of which, my younger sister was laughing as she told me of a discussion she had with her boyfriend about why you never see Stevie Wonder's home on MTV's "Cribs". I would tell you what was so funny, but I find it too embarrassing.

Well tucked in and smelling of home.

I turned the heat on tonight, and the air that comes up through the vents and the way it heats the wood in the floors -- there is a scent that it creates. And it is familiar to me.

This is not my first winter. In Los Angeles or otherwise.

Prickle

There aren't lyrics to the theme from The American President, but that's what's playing now. And it is so beautiful I feel my nose heating up with tears. I wonder if it would be easier to live this life I have if I weren't so incredibly sentimental.

Ditto for The Cider House Rules.

"And that is a tidy definition of the absence of integrity."

I have a lot of things on my mind. Life-altering things. Decision-demanding things. Urgent things. Immovable things. Movable things. It's cause for reflection. And prediction. I'm a whiz at the former. Not so much with the latter.

I had a slightly glamorous little photo session today. That was nice. It's nice to be made to feel lovely. It's nice to be petted by someone else's lens.

And it required getting up early and being determined and motivated and -- that nemesis to my secret self -- "upbeat." But it caused me to make good use of my time. And it caused me to make proper use of my printer for once.

I can't deny there is fear in me. Great, nagging fear. Uncertainty. Risk. For some characters, these lead to triumph when faced. For others -- those in red tunics or products of that metaphor -- the results are somewhat more grim.

I bought a number of Christmas decorations from Playmobil in the few Christmases that preceded this one that looms. They are in a great big translucent vellum bag. And that's where they will stay. At least for this year. I might prefer to make a nativity scene out of hotdogs and toothpicks this year. Something that grants me the joy of making it on my own. I might also opt for the "invisible Christmas" theme that has cascaded across the walls of my home for the past few years. It's a happy match of jolly (but not too) and tidy.

This wine tastes foul. And there's a bug in it.

Gush Test

Curses. I forgot what I was going to write. And I should have had that glass of wine after all. And I should have watched The Royal Tenenbaums a long time ago. I should have done more with the time. There are too many days I can't remember at all. Blurred into the background like brushstrokes that become sky or cloud or tree. I wanted them all to count.

I opened up some nice new sateen sheets. I have another set of the same pattern that has been in use for a few years. They reminded me of my old apartment in San Diego. I remember opening that first package and smoothing the sheets down on my bed. There's a universal rule for you. Wherever you go, you will always change your sheets. But if you're me, you'll remember that the last time you put these sheets down, it was a Thursday. In the year 2000. In November. And you won't tell anyone, because they will think you're a freak.

The Attic
A few months ago, I started making a list of the top threats to the Bush Presidency. At the top of the list was Lil Bow Wow. I never made it to Item Two.
This was just one of many, many things lurking in my Drafts Folder, dating back moons upon moons. Amongst what follows are pieces of poetry, pieces of emails I wrote, pieces of emails I never sent, pieces of emails I got, pieces of sketch ideas, things I thought might one day be funny, something my little sister said, ideas for names for a fictitious brand of coffee, and a quote from The Onion. Make sense of what you can. There will be no points awarded.
That's life, then. Choices. Regrets. Risks taken. Chances passed over. Wondering if there is truth or contentment to be found. Hoping to avoid feeling a fool at all costs. Learning that all that is in the world is not of my doing. And cannot be. I'm only telling you this because my judgment is impaired by alcohol and the rain. Pain-free baldness solution? Tell me more! More than one would hope or expect In times that smack of tragedy When life and love seem distant and foreign Lived by others I make room for error I clear out space for failure I make more of my time than most Want want want My last email was a lie. subtext! subtext! subtext! Did I ever tell you that I wondered recently if I have somehow become psychic? I give up For better or for worse, I think that I surrender now to all that vanquishes me. Meekly do I bow my head. Meekly accepting all that is and is not so. Benign resignation is my color. It is flat and lifeless. Dull. It lacks sheen. long and short that you are long and I am short that I am long on love for you and you are short on patience Who ever said rain was gloomy? Who ever heard those delicate droplets, pinging against glass or tin or wood or soil and thought, "What a shame. I was happy only a moment ago." kiss sweet and lovely laced with longing gentle and generous i feel safe here kiss choose rhapsody delphian satiate scintillate Kevin Kinklesworth is going to Kalamazoo. Visit your local mall for such upscale toy stores as Wooden Toys Your Kids Will Hate and Professor Asshole Q. Boredom's Lame-U-Cational Cocksuckery. I have syndrome. Solomon Burke has 21 children. And ten of them are grandchildren because he had them with two of his daughters. I wonder if I put all this here because I was tired of looking at all of those pictures of my head. Scroll down, if you must.

She comes in colors.

I watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory on Thanksgiving Day. These pictures made me think of Violet Beauregarde and the Oompa Loompas. Vaguely.

We had an interesting discussion that night about the transgression of referring to the movie as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or referring to the book as Willy Wonka. And about Roald Dahl in general. For some reason, though, the discourse eventually broke down into groans and yawns and the loosening of belts.

Unchronicle

Ideas are coming differently today. Different in pace. Different in urgency. I often stew in my discontent with everything being less than new. And then sometimes, I catch a glint of favor in finding that things are the same. I wish I could make up my mind.

My persistent, mundane vexations are back. The pain in the neck. The twitch in the eye. I hope all this poison is just the runoff of my brain's magical processes. Like polychlorinated biphenyls.

It's no World of Suzie Wong out there, you know.

All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.

Loren turned me on to www.pickleparty.com, and I am feeling evangelistic about it. The "Sorry I called you a chink" card was my debut, but ensuing tastes did not disappoint. I don't send many e-greetings. My exacting standards exclude nearly all but the most Sanrio of designs. But this is a great new find, and I took notice of my options expanding considerably, having found it. I already sent this one out. One of my Jewish friends is lucky indeed.

These pictures have nothing to do with the pickle party, I'm afraid.

"Sing a little sweeter. And love a little longer. And soon you will be there."

There are many interesting names to be found at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Names grown quaint with disuse. Names like Nettie and Yettie and Lollie and Froik and Ildefors and Fannie. A surprising lot of Fannies. I found Erich Korngold's grave purely by accident. And wondered about a grave marker shaped like a cross but with a giant dollar symbol engraved on it. There was also one shaped like a ballistic missile. I didn't give as much thought to that one.

There were people who lived very long lives and very short ones. Daughters remembered by mothers who outlived them. Great grandparents remembered by generations upon generations of loving descendants. There were stones that showed the softening -- and sometimes greening -- effects of time. Lives begun in 1843. Lives begun more recently. And there were ducks skirting a pond as the sun sank down behind palm trees and crypts and the Hollywood sign. Somewhere in the background of my internal monologue, Instant Karma was playing.

The grass is greener in a cemetery. But the flowers don't last.

I even went inside someone else's mausoleum. See?

Time does have a softening hand. Hearts. Bones. They grow softer. The jagged edges of memories grow smooth. The prickle of experience melts into a caress. And some things lose their value. The dollar. Promises. Hopes. It's a great linear adjustment, it is. A thing that stretches and strains until its end is far enough from its origin that it no longer has need of acknowledgement of a beginning. At the end of French movies and French centuries and French lives, I suppose, one expects to see the word: Fin.

We will go to our graves, one day, you and I. Strangers.

"Forget your troubles. Come on. Get happy."

It's December. And instead of thinking about death -- as we all usually do at this time of year -- I suggest we think on things uplifting. The list of for instances does not include picturing your parents doing it, so straighten up.

"There are millions of us!"

I looked like a girl who had only had three hours of sleep today, but I performed like one who'd had at least four.

I think I was actually envious of the sign outside Mr. Cecil's. The one that reads, "Plates of meat to dream about." The first time I saw that sign was in October of last year, when I was a newcomer to this area code. I might even have poutily thought, "Hey. I'm a plate of meat to dream about, too." I am reduced to competing with advertising signage. There is something not so grand about that.

The big squeezy tube of toothpaste outside of Katz Dentistry taunted me with its voluptuous curves and suggestive creases, too. What is it with this town? Can't a girl feel attractive anymore? I'll wager that toothpaste tube has had work done.

Pagliacci

I realize how much I fancy driving home just as dawn is breaking. When the moon is still fully up there, and the light of early morning is just faintly beginning to show itself. I feel as if I am in on a great secret.

I may only ever be a reflection of what I once was, but reflections occasionally shimmer also.

Prodigal

So ends the ordeal. Not counting a three-course dessert or an elaborate spread of pre-meal munchies, I prepared nine different dishes today, one of which was a turkey, properly brined. It's been a long time since I did the whole business myself. Since 1997, I think. I have a few memories from that Thanksgiving. I recall standing alone in a kitchen for a long time cleaning up as everyone else slept or went home. It did not bother me today. I had good company while I toiled. I'm tired from standing all day and from feeling as if nothing would ever be finished.

But the meal was a smash, and everyone went home full to bursting. And I have the makings of a brilliant turkey soup simmering on my stove. I wish I didn't have so much to do tomorrow. I could have used a break.

I think I paid closer attention to the voices I didn't hear today than to the voices I did. And that was probably crap of me. No wonder the good son got so riled up.

I guess I'm looking forward to the leftovers.

My Love/Hate Relationship with the City of Angels

It took me nearly four hours today to visit two places to buy a pie and some red currant jelly.

Then I went and held the camera for some portion of the live chat of a porn star friend of mine. One of the chat participants posted: "Mary has steady hands." They also invited me to take off my shirt. But who doesn't, these days?

Then I gave a dollar to a not-so-well-to-do lady who approached me at the cashier's window of a drive through.

I have had a headache for hours, and I haven't done nearly enough in preparation for tomorrow. But the fire is going, and I've had a nice bit of bright conversation. And Raiders of the Lost Ark is playing on the television. I'll be all right.

The Aching State

My family is not getting on. It's wearing me down and saddening me. I am so sick and tired of the taste of surrender. I would rather chew glass.

Like reasoning with a turnip

There is no sense to be made of things. People can't be changed. They can't be made to see. They can't understand with their eyes closed and their souls sold. I liken it to a sin to waste the tiniest grain of effort trying to change what is. My motto should have always been: If it's broke, leave it.

Good night, Moon.

Windy day. Windy night. The ghost of a chill. I bought nice things at the market today. I like the way that feels.

Thanksgiving

When I was a girl in grade school, Thanksgiving became a list of words and pictures. Cornucopia. Indian corn. Pilgrims. The Mayflower. Still life arrangements of gourds and squash and unappetizing-looking dry things. Centerpieces with accordioned crepe paper in them. Aprons and bonnets. Buckled shoes. Dead leaves. Turkeys in black hats and little pilgrim outfits. Thanksgiving was the smell of paste behind orange and brown construction paper letters, jauntily affixed to the board in the classroom where the teacher put up timely and topical collages. I can barely remember a Thanksgiving meal from those years. They all run together. In a time when nearly every night was a celebration, those occasional Thursdays never stood out.

I outgrew the spell of construction paper holidays.

I remember a lot of Thanksgiving dinners now. I remember who was in attendance and who wasn't. I remember whether I did the cooking or not. I remember the windows in my Hillcrest apartment all being steamed up when I had the oven going one year. I remember washing dishes long into the night while everyone else in the house slept. Putting leftovers into the refrigerator strategically, somehow making it all fit. I remember shopping. Always buying chicken broth just in case. Always having plenty at home. I remember having to get up so early to get the turkey started. And being so proud of it when it was done. I remember the dilemma of video rental choices. The crackle of fire logs. The comfort of a home filled with friends and laughter. The years when tears were in order. The years after the point when I came to enjoy wine with dinner. The television marathons. The green bean casseroles. My special, drunken candied yams. Ways to use cranberries. Driving home after a long, long day of eating and dozing and festivity. The dual-edged sword of the gift of reflection.

I catch myself no longer looking forward to grand holidays. They've come to be days on which an unfounded smile must be maintained for much longer than usual. Merciless memory machines. Harrowing markers of a stretch of life that feels as if it is laughing at me. They have become that thing one must "get through." Rather than the thing one yearns for. That infuriates me. And causes me to wonder if this is all just part of a network television feature wherein a grouchy girl learns the true meaning of the holidays. What a strange thing that would be. If it turned out that I was just living in the pages of someone else's script. If some unseen pen were making all of this so. Drat that pen and the hand that grips it, if that is the case.

I have it in me to laugh and to cause others to do so. I have it in me to appear a vessel of joy. I even have it in me to not accuse myself of a massive fraud each time such things appear to be true. But in the stillness of solitude, there is disquiet waiting for me. I wake with the hooks of dreams still in me but dissolving fast and gone before I can remove them. I wake with neither reluctance nor relief. Just the faint and far-off assurance that it's what one is supposed to do and one had better get to it.

This always filled me with a sense of melancholy that was once nearly glorious and welcome. Now, it is merely a path to the memory of that feeling. Even emotion is subject to generation loss, it seems.

You will sell me nothing on the promise of my certain demise.

I get emails that assure me this is "the last flashlight I will ever buy." I don't think I like this sort of marketing. It makes me feel as if someone out there is convinced I will not outlive a set of "C" batteries. Or that the Tuff-Kote plastic housing of this beacon is somehow sturdier than the brittle framework of my existence. I'll just use candles, thanks.

The Camptown ladies sing this song.

The Doo Dah Parade was a surprise and a fun excursion, despite my state of Hangover: Code Orange. I was especially intrigued by the Christian sign-holders, one of whose signs listed all the types of sinners that should take heed. Closing out the long list of such things as murderers, adulterers, perverts, and thieves were the items "Garbage Mouths" and "Misc. Heathen." That was actually charming to me. And the lettering was done in Ad Lib, which seemed like a somewhat more festive font than the occasion called for, further proving that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine of fire and brimstone go down.

I liked many of the costumes and costume concepts. But I did not have the camera power to properly document much of it. And I don't know that parade photos are really the sort of thing one looks back at very often. I could just as easily wait for the news photos to become available online. That's what REAL documentarians do, right?

The Ugly Hour of Waking

I wish I could have written down all the things careering round in my skull last night. I remember driving home and stumbling onto a bit of lyric that I knew I would want to keep. I kept repeating it in my head, wanting to preserve it until I could get to a place of peace and writing. But I lost it. I always seem to in situations such as that. I know that I was listening to a mix CD that I made last year and that it was plucking certain of my heartstrings. But I don't think that was the progeny of the thought. It's gone now. Like so much.

Finally, some November weather. It is both a relief and a reluctant reminder. I ate nearly nothing yesterday. But there are fat days ahead.

"In time we all taste the lime in the light."

This is not at all a respectable hour for a girl to be getting home. But it's a bloody good excuse for not being able to put thoughts into proper order or words for that matter. I'm chilly, all of a sudden. And tired of playing the luckless outsider. In cases of welcome beckoning, with few exceptions, I will answer.

Ooh. It's dawn. And a grey one at that.

The cabin door opened and he saw the Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light: "Daybreak, gentlemen!"

Okay, so I'm feeling referential.

Oh, to ever be presented with an award by Steve Martin. I was reading this, and I felt so jealous of Philip Roth. I have admired and adored Steve Martin for, lo, these many years. I used to annoy my high school chums with bits from his stand-up acts. I still listen to them on my record player, and they're still brilliant. I remember laughing aloud to page after page of Cruel Shoes. I remember sneering at Victoria Tennant, when I found out he was "with" her. Of course, this is where my admiration usually falters. I don't just admire him. I actually want to marry him. Like so many other things on my list. Many of which are inanimate objects or abstract ideas. It's true, I have no ring on my finger. But perhaps it's because I'm waiting on broccoli to present me with one.

"People don't go to sleep thin and wake up obese."

There's another lawsuit in the news. McDonald's has been sued by a woman for making coffee too hot. Now, they're being sued by the children of New York for making them fat. Next, they will be sued by the fashion industry for causing people to be predisposed to dislike wearing combinations of brown and yellow that are too reminiscent of their vintage uniforms.

I used to live in Japan, and there were people -- mostly those who actually worked at McDonald's -- who not only ate there daily, but took home the toss-outs to eat at home with their mates. And they were plenty thin. What's their secret. I'll tell you: Volume.

I miss McDonald's in Japan. It was a classy joint. And when you ordered any milkshake flavor other than vanilla or chocolate (such as melon or peach or mint), you would be given a vanilla shake with a little container of flavoring goo to add in. It was good for my self-esteem to aid in the preparation of my food.

And you could order corn soup there. Actually, it was called "Corn Potage," but that's just because Japanese people are actually French. Watch Iron Chef. You'll see what I mean.

They were always clean and fresh-smelling and nicely lit. Not like so many urban McDonald's in these parts. I've got to carry a little extra pocket money just to pacify the vagrants who want to buy hash browns or bash my head in. It's my choice. The same is true at the gas station. Especially late at night. I have taken to figuring that sort of gratuity into the mix. I don't want my windshields washed, but here's a dollar. Go buy yourself a dialysis treatment, buddy. You look like hell.

I almost prefer giving to a guy who offers to clean my windshield than to a guy who wants to sell me his CD. I don't feel charitable enough on any day to just buy some CD off a guy in the street. That's no way to handle a pan. After all, I'd be afraid to listen to it. What if I dug it? What would that say about me?

I wish it could be a goodly form of charity. I usually give because I feel a combination of guilt and intimidation. I really would like to help all the less fortunate. Especially when it's a lady with only one shoe on and eyes that look in opposite directions. I want to help her. But I worry that she will be offended if I offer to buy her a meal. And who has that kind of time, anyway?

In all honesty, I do give what I have in my pocket, more often than not. It's something I learned from my dad. And being like him makes me feel good inside.

Forgotten in the flames

I never even knew that Gus Grissom had died in a launchpad fire until I heard the news about his widow's tiff with NASA over the ownership of his suit. What's wrong with me? Where was I? I remember exactly where I was when I saw the Challenger explosion. I actually get choked up just thinking about it. A few years ago, in a class, there was a video about the investigations and inquiries following Challenger, and Richard Feynman (a personal hero of mine) was shown breaking through what my dad would call "the mumbo jumbo" to explain what really happened with those blasted O rings. I remember having difficulty keeping my emotions in check just watching the video. It's still so vivid in my memory. I guess I used to dream about going up into space. Maybe Challenger did a little damage to that dream. That, and the realization that those jumpsuits they all have to wear are never very flattering to a woman's shape.

I miss Richard Feynman. I wish I could have met him. I met Carl Sagan, but that didn't make up for it. I lent my copy of Surely, You're Joking, Mr. Feynman to my high school physics teacher, who was also my debate coach and a general pal, and he ended up reading it in the bath and getting the lower half of the book all swollen and ripply with water. I don't know if I was more disappointed about the condition of the book or the idea of my teacher in the bathtub with it. Oh, how I long for the cares of my adolescence.

Every Day Is Like Sunday

I have been struggling. Digging for significance. Praying for poetry. I have been hoping to unearth things in myself that will turn it all around, make it all make sense, make it all come right. But it has only led to bleeding innards and tired fingers.

I walked in the sunshine today. It was hot and muggy. Not at all right for the calendar page I have displayed on my wall. But I wasn't a mess of complaints.

I've been working -- it seems like forever. Sitting in front of blank pages that do not fill themselves quickly enough. Listening to songs that always send me somewhere. Sometimes right into a blind wall. Today, I heard a song that jettisoned me back to 1987 and a fury of a sadness that took shape then. Sadness seems to have been gushing through all the tides of my existence. With the exception of a few short years that seemed foreign and friendly, there was an abundance of clouds in the skies of my history. There are stretches of years at a time when no pictures were taken of me. When no smiles were requested. When no one asked me to say, "cheese." There are long stretches that are only catalogued by my infrequent journal-writing or by copies of letters I wrote and kept. I kept them all. Wanted to. And I was always touched to learn that someone else in the world kept them, too. Even if they were stuffed into a shoebox or lost behind the back panel of a desk drawer. There are little pieces of me lurking in unsuspecting places around the world. And I have the photostats.

I don't know if there is significance in the ratio. There is a sort of peacefulness in being content. A dangerous tranquility. It is largely unfamiliar to me. I'm not hoping for a fat, lazy sort of happiness. Not an armchair happiness. Not a poolside sort of contentment. Just freedom from the tearful times. Less of those, please. More hair-rumpling and pats on the back. More admiration and appreciation. More of the special smile that can only be shared by two. The look that can only be understood by those same two. More of the unspoken.

But perhaps I merely fall prey to my music mix. Whereas I began this moment thinking, "Come, Armageddon. Come, Armageddon. Come." I finish it thinking that I should just blame it on the bossa nova.

Don't let it bring you down. It's only castles burning.

Of course! Kindness has healing properties!

Someone sent me flowers today. In a beautiful jade green vase. It made me smile.

A bit of history. Mine and the world's.

There used to be a flying saucer in a canyon between 5th and 6th Avenues in Hillcrest, hidden away behind some offices. I remember the first time it was shown to me, and then the subsequent times I brought friends over to peek at it while on the way to Hash House A Go Go or some similar spot. The mystery was fun. Something to speculate about. I wondered why it was there. Whether it was being used. If some group of office folk was occasionally summoned to their meetings in its viscera. I wondered.

Today, I read an article that explains why the saucer is gone and who has snatched it up. This further prompted me to look into the history of the Futuro House and Matti Suuronen. There are also some imagination-stirring pictures here. I especially like the idea of having a Futuro House atop a snowy mountain where I could remove my mod outerwear and knit hat and warm up beside a futuristic fireplace. Cinnamon stick for your cider, anyone? Yes, it's made of plastic, but isn't everything these days?

Tut tut. There's no need for sarcasm.

I can't quite place the feeling today. A certain estrangement from myself. An awareness of the passage of time. A concern over it. A desire to be somewhere else. In a comforting embrace. In front of a fire my dad made. In the first class cabin of a transatlantic flight. I am feeling drawn to running away. To dropping it all and bolting. I am curious what the darkness would hold for me if I ever let myself out in it.

But I follow such thoughts with reading Dubliners in bed and eating guilty Cheese Nips too near my high thread count sheets. Somewhere in there, a journey must be made. My reluctance is no excuse for the stillness I allow.

"Let joy be uncontained."

Today's LACMA matinee featured the Marx Brothers in A Night at the Opera, which was great great. It was impossibly beautiful out today, but I couldn't have been lured out of doors while the film was rolling. Besides, I don't need the freckles.

The theater smelled particularly unwashed today, and that same fellow from the Ivanhoe screening showed up as the credits rolled, climbed over the back of a seat and into one in my row, and proceeded to yell, "Go, Groucho!" before he got settled. Guess I may have to get used to him.

I feel curiously sleepy today. Drained and undriven. It's awful to be in a funk when you've so much to do. And it's awful to speak in the second person when you're clearly talking about yourself. Well, it's not so awful. Maybe it's poetic. I'm being liberal here. I want to go down for a nap, but I have this strange suspicion that I might never wake up.

Have I ever mentioned my theory about sleep being a kind of wormhole into other universes and other lives that you live out completely before plunging into a new one? It's probably not even my idea. None of my best ideas ever are.

Pineapple juice, parking fees, and longstanding crushes

At the sweaty, jostling after-party for the Clash of the Titans event last night, I had a number of nice sound bites and moments to register. Janeane Garofalo shook my hand gingerly. Scott Thompson smiled and said hello. David Cross rubbed elbows with me quite literally and quite accidentally. Bob Odenkirk thanked me for coming. Craig Northey told me how -- at long last -- to buy his CD. And Tom Kenny told my friend to marry me and was, for the record, the nicest one of all. This sort of name-dropping holds little real victory for me, though, as I paid a fat sum of charitable currency to be there and no one thought I was actually anyone special. But I enjoyed myself and laughed the tears right out. There was even an Albert Brooks reference at one point. That, sir, takes the cake.

Also for the record, this is what I wore.

There are many thoughts I should have written down. Many inspirations I should have translated into being before translating myself into sleeping. I always manage to find a path to failure for myself. Even in moments of great pleasure. For purposes of recounting, the weekend held plenty of non-failing passages. And a sort of impromptu gay pub crawl. And fear of the planning stages. And fear of the recounting stages. I can't cheer too loudly. It might lead to cramping. It is, after all, November.

Three cheers for plans gone awry.

I had to go to two different theaters tonight to see Harry Potter. In between, I had to use the free Internet access at the Apple Store to book tickets at the second theater, which ended up being the Chinese, which was the right place to see the film, so everything came out fine. Julia Nickson was seated two rows ahead of me. I've been told I look like her. I don't think it's true. She's half Chinese, too, but that's where the separated-at-birth theories end. To my left, a young girl was translating nearly all of the movie for the female adult with her (we'll say it was her mother) in Spanish. When I finally asked her not to talk (and to my credit, this was actually well over an hour into the film), I could feel the icy, resentful silence that ensued -- and I loved it. Icy, resentful -- sure. But silent nonetheless.

It was a spur of the moment evening that ought to have required a great deal of planning. But it was a somewhat acceptable reward for not being able to see Terry Gilliam present Lost in La Mancha at LACMA. Member that I am, tickets could not be gotten. But I've recovered from that disappointment.

I had a few bits of inspiration today. But they were only halfhearted. I'll try again next time.

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.