"You can do it!" they said.

No, I can't.

Benny and Bjorn speak my mind

I am not in my skin today. I am somewhere out on the periphery of who I am. I'm moving very slowly. I am heavy and contemplative and pale and sorrowful. Because this is not what I have chosen. And I grow weary of the grab-bag quality of my fate. I know that I will never feel that I have arrived. But today, I barely feel as if I am moving at all. And tomorrow is coming. Like summer and autumn and everything else. But I can't see myself in it. I can see the edges of tomorrow, but it's blank inside. I'm absent altogether. I'm frozen with one foot lifted, perpetually on the verge of a step forward that never seems to come. Like a statue in Pompeii.

Does it always have to suck?

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it

What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go
Well, some of that we did but most we didn't
And why I just don't know

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time

Mistaken for Glamorous

I don't know what "Duplex" is, but a woman with a clipboard saw me standing waiting to cross the street and asked if I was there for it. There were film crews and bored-looking police officers swarming (although "to swarm" seems like too energetic a verb) around Tom Bergin's when I drove past. And the parking garage was full of cars, so much so that I had to park on the blasted top level, which was being resurfaced, so I had to use the far staircase. I'm in a funk. Maybe if I tell myself that "Duplex" is something that only a really hot chick would be showing up for, I can convince myself this isn't going to be a rotten day.

"How can you laugh when you know I'm down?"

The jacket I wore
The smile I found
The sand I stood in
Boots and all

Promises I made
Promises I accepted
Tulips
Rain
Men in sailor costumes

It is a terrible thing to trust

I don't always win in air hockey
I seldom win in pool
I eat sushi for fun

I'll go through life with my hair in my eyes
And the world on my shoulders
And denial in my handbag

I'll go through life with high-heeled shoes
That show my toes
And pants with slits in them

I'll go through life in battle gear

I would have liked some ice cream

When the day is over
I still want more
When goodbye becomes good grief
I still want
When tomorrow is a promise and never is the bargain
I want it more than ever

This is not the place for this.

Sometimes boredom takes on the appearance of poetry.
And sometimes poetry takes on the feverish pitch of a plea.

"Have I told you about the ice cream vendor I'm going to assassinate?"

What's there to say about the month of May?

Some days, my brain is filled with what feels like poetry. Other days, it seems to be dry as bone, and it causes me to crave inspiration or influence or escape. And I can't see clear of the expectation. A grid with spots on it. Arrows pointing upward. Like waking from a dream you can't quite keep. I did that this morning. Awoke knowing I'd dreamed something very important but lost it instantaneously. "It was something outside," I thought in the shower. But I could only see a window and a door and a porch, maybe. But I don't know what was happening out there or why it meant so much to try and remember. Everything -- everything -- is always just slightly out of my reach. I say that with absolute conviction. The rabbit on the treadmill chasing after the carrot dangling from the fishing pole attached to a harness it's wearing. Unknowingly.

Stop.

I am not about what I have done or where I have been. I am about what I am becoming. And what I will have left behind.

Couldn't I spend hours just arguing the merits of various necklines? Scoop. Vee. Turtle. Mock. On any given day, I am a staunch loyalist. And on the next day, I will be a traitor.

My hair is more than three feet long. I just measured it. I couldn't find a ruler or a tape measure. So I used the side of a piece of paper and measured eleven-inch increments.

I am trying not to forget that everything about a day like this was once exciting and foreign and exotic and unfamiliar to me. Once, everything that ever happened to me here was worth writing down. It all felt like part of some great, grand excursion. An adventure with a new backdrop and new characters playing new roles. I'm as fond of the familiarity as I was of the unfamiliarity. It's like the trade-up of the thrill of the new for the security of the verified. I no longer feel at risk or lost. But I'm tempted to ask why this town never brings me flowers anymore.

What is artificial is at least dependable.

"He's the dancing version of Nunzio."

We had to leave Amagi's before I got to sing my Salt N' Pepa groove, but I wasn't entirely disappointed. I sang and danced and laughed and wished I hadn't let anyone make me dinner. And my throat is a bit raw from screaming out AC/DC and Ramones tunes. It's a good kind of raw.

I've been finding lots of reasons to bare my shoulders. It's nice to not always want to cover up. Summer is coming. God, how it's coming. Summer isn't my favorite month. I think I love the late autumn most of all. "Present Laughter weather," as I've been known to call it. But summer holds some sparkle for me, too. Maybe I will spend more time at the beach this year. Maybe I will drink frozen lemonade on a boardwalk somewhere. Although, I'm always disappointed by frozen lemonade. It's never as refreshing as it promises to be -- as it wants you to BELIEVE it will be. It's too sweet or too sour or too frothed up and deceptively unhydrating. Maybe I'll pass on the brainfreeze-mongers and opt instead for a cool glass of iced tea, with ice cubes tinkling against the glass and droplets of condensation pooling up just above where my fingers are placed. But who am I kidding. No one serves iced tea in glass on the beach. And ice cubes make no sound against the innards of a waxed paper cup.

While we're on the subject of seasons, I miss cherry blossom season in Japan. I remember taking my 35 mm camera out to a park near the city we lived in and snapping black and white photographs of young, be-backpacked Japanese school children jumping in the air trying to catch the cherry blossom petals as they came floating down from the sky like soft, pink snow. My friend Spencer and I took an afternoon trip to Ueno and went to the museum and sighed in front of Van Goghs and Renoirs and any number of other works. And we bought these colorful, sugary spherules -- these hard candies that were so perfect to have on that day. Later, when I knew I would be seeing Spencer during a visit to a university in Virginia, I brought him a bag of those candies. I had carried them with me from Japan nearly a year hence. I wonder if he ever ate them.

Cherry blossom season is also the time of year when Beulah would come home from the bon odori with a goldfish in a plastic bag and other assorted carnival nonsense. Sometimes, I wish I had been a child in Japan. Sometimes I feel as if I got there too late. Arriving as a teenager prevented me from seeking out wonder and instead left me pleased at the ease with which underaged folk can acquire alcohol. A waste. Truly.

Adam passed the bar! And I was the one to retrieve his results for him. How proud I was! I took a screen shot of the notice and emailed it to him. It was a nice moment to share. I will ply him with sushi and shower him with praise. Ever since he was mistaken for my little brother at the Risley dining hall, I have felt a certain maternal care for him. He's older than I am, but he's cute as a button. Literally. (I always say, "Literally," after I say that Adam is cute as a button. It's become a necessary lyric.) And I'm hopelessly maternal as it is. I'm just always on the lookout for a new charge. I probably didn't seem maternal to Adam on the day he first met me. We were driving a sedan to Syracuse for a debate tournament, and I had a bit of a sore throat, so I was carrying on breathlessly -- as I do -- and taking little two-second breaks to pump Sucrets analgesic throat spray into my mouth. Adam thought I was insane. Literally. I was dressed all in yellow that day. That's something I remember.

Last year, this holiday weekend was pretty eventful. I'm back in juxtaposition mode, consarn it. Anniversaries are only meaningful when you observe them. Otherwise, they're just days on the calendar. Right?

"We're both massage therapists."

Thank you, Julie, for a fun night out of post-birthday shenanigans. We ate a lovely dinner at the Foundation Room (including foie gras -- my favorite, but what's with me and liver these days?), finishing just in time to hear Peter Murphy say, "Thank you," and bow in his peculiar Russian-looking get-up. We went to The Standard and were not impressed. We went to Skybar and were ushered in on phony credentials. I got my palm read. We went to the Saddle Ranch Chop House and watched people tame the mechanical bull. One girl in a one-shoulder denim jumpsuit deal kept inadvertently exposing a boob as she flailed on the back of that great metal beast. And all Julie and I could think was, "Who wears denim jumpsuits anymore?" We met lots of boys and took pictures and told little white lies. And I'm thoroughly surprised by how not drunk I am after how much I worked to make that an untruth. The world is a mysterious place. Well, Sunset is, anyway.

Sleep is overrated.

Confiscated!

Tonight, I took Matt out for his birthday. I got all gussied up and took him to La Gran Tapa, where I ate my favorite chicken liver menu item, and he had the "porklamb." We watched the Kids in the Hall at Copley Symphony Hall from amazing fourth or fifth row seats. The brutish security staff took my camera. I got it back. A combination of fussing, using big words, and batting my eyelashes enabled me to leave without having to erase all the shots I took. Yay! Then we went to the Sunset Bowl, and we shot pool and arm wrestled* and played air hockey. I beat the girls in arm wrestling. Matt beat me. It makes sense.

Then I had to drive back home to Los Angeles, landing in my bed after 3:30 A.M., knowing that I had to be on a 7 A.M. conference call. Fun is murder. Plain and simple.


Happy Birthday, Matt!

*This is a surprising detail.

Nothing's Shocking

Mid-week trips to San Diego are both exciting and daunting. I've only had to do it a few times. Tomorrow, will be the next on the list. It doesn't quite feel like a getaway. At least not in the way that a weekend does. It just feels like a long drive with a purpose. I guess I like that. I like that I used to drive several hours to go see a show or take in a sight. And I'm fine with vehicles not yet being rocket-powered. Although I recently saw some guy tooling down Sunset Boulevard in a little rocket car. I laughed and cheered. If I had had time before he passed me, I might have made the "toot toot" gesture you make to truck drivers out on the open highways, but that would have been a stupid thing to do.

Right now, I'm not making plans. I'm just pushing back from the desk, heading for the slumber mill, and noticing how desperately I could use a neckrub. In the days and weeks to come, I may begin making plans again. But to what end, I can't say. Days of frustration take on a different cast from the vantage point of nighttime. They seem small and meek. While the night is vast and merciless. I'm soaking in it.

"Life begins on the other side of despair."

For flowers and gestures and remembrances and phone calls and kindnesses rendered at the very most opportune times, thank you, Alex. Anakin isn't the only character in the story who can maintain the appearance of a gumdrop even as he suffers.

Channeling the Thin White Duke

Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel
Come get up my baby
Look at that sky, life's begun
Nights are warm and the days are young
Come get up my baby

There's my baby, lost that's all
Once I'm begging you save her little soul
Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Come get up my baby

Last night they loved you, opening doors and pulling some strings, angel
Come get up my baby
In walked luck and you looked in time
Never look back, walk tall, act fine
Come get up my baby

I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years, gold
Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Come get up my baby

Some of these days, and it won't be long
Gonna drive back down where you once belonged
In the back of a dream car twenty foot long
Don't cry my sweet, don't break my heart
Doing all right, but you gotta get smart
Wish upon, wish upon, day upon day, I believe oh lord
I believe all the way
Come get up my baby

There's my baby, lost that's all
Once I'm begging you save her little soul
Golden years, gold whop whop whop
Come get up my baby

Don't let me hear you say life's taking you nowhere, angel
Come get up my baby
Run for the shadows, run for the shadows
Run for the shadows in these golden years

I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna touch you in these golden years

Happy Birthday to Me

My father gave me a birthday card. here are some of the things he wrote: "I wasn't there with you and your mom when you entered this world, but I'll bet you came with a smile on your face and alert to the fact that everyone listened when you had something to say. I'm not sure if it's nostalgia or just a natural tendency to think of your children as being little ones again on their birthdays -- even though they are indeed grown men and women. Whatever the case, both your mom and I thought of the Christmas when you WERE Mrs. Beasley!" The rest of the card was very sentimental and loving and generously punctuated with exclamation points.

This is my first school picture. Mary in kindergarten in Norfolk, Virginia. I remember this dress. It was made of polyester and was somewhat rough to the touch -- a crepey fabric. And there was a pastel flower embroidered on the breast. It was short and flirty and showed my knobby little knees. And I wore buckled shoes and stockings. My hair looks very red in this picture. And I am mischievously covering up the fact that all four of my front teeth are missing.

"I wish that I could push a button and talk in the past and not the present tense."

I had all these great things to say, didn't I? Maybe they were only great at the time. Or maybe they were never very great. They've escaped my eager clutches. Either way.

Impressions of the weekend. I drove. I sang. I ran. It was hot. I practiced. I played. I ordered. I ate. I wrote. I tinkered. I purchased. I plotted. I dabbled. I dallied. I danced. I made hand-clapping sounds. I gave. I received. I posed. I reclined. I was stopped by a person in a Corvette and asked for my number on the street by the person in the passenger seat. I was told I was "so cute" by an audience member. I was told that "disco armageddon was the funniest thing I've ever heard." I was congratulated. I was brownbagged. I warmed up. I cooled down. I wondered. I waited. I woke up with a terrible crick in my neck. And I wished I had found more reasons to sweat than the simple fact of the heat.

Curious

I'm in the middle of the city and there'e a yippie dog barking incessantly. I think it belongs to the owner of the flower shop. Somehow, it seems out of place. I don't get to bring a pet to work. Unless it's a dog made out of stone carrying a welcome sign in it's stone mouth. I feel slighted.

This Saturday will be the one-year anniversary of my first time on stage with my comedy group. I'm not expecting anything unusual to happen. But it's always mindboggling to note the incessant and unstoppable passage of time. My mind is boggled.

Pulchritude Vicissitude Solitude

I have had the luxury of being thanked. I have been handed the humbling gift of gratitude and acknowledgement. It's a wonderful thing. And a terrible thing. And it is the center of what drives me to be a better person. Appreciate me. Acknowledge me. Don't take me for granted. Make it plain to me that all of this is not in vain. Empathy plunges me into great bouts of suffering and anguish. Because I know how you hurt. It is how I hurt. And how I have hurt before. I know that ache. I know that great question. I know what it is to finally accept that the answer will always be "no."

But it doesn't always kill me. And it doesn't always show. And it doesn't always make the world come to an end. Even when it seems like it should. Tomorrow is another day. One of many. Tomorrow has the chance to be everything that today wasn't. Tomorrow is for dreamers and soldiers and people who pick wildflowers. Claim it.

In other news, I like this picture of me.

"Remind me to turn in my overdue library books, because a robot called me this morning to let me know."

I am tired. I feel as if I have been turned inside out and worn as a coat by someone racing in the Iditarod. And losing.

This week has both crawled and flown by, as is the case with so many previous weeks. Weekend endcaps sandwich days that blur together with pockets of accomplishment and enjoyment and long stretches of nothing. Hours lost in the frustrating passage of life and time and circumstance.

I can never quite tell if I am an enormous fool.

Making Friends and Splashes and Headaches

I think that Barefoot is a nice place to go at happy hour. And it's true -- they do make an excellent dirty martini. I was pleased. And sort of beginning to lose faith in the dirty martini. I've had so many undrinkable attempts lately, I began to wonder if they've always been disgusting but I was somehow unaware. Not so. I'm relieved.

A pretty girl named Ivy got my attention and asked if I had been eating at Sabor last week, and I said that I had. She loves that restaurant and goes there often, and apparently she recognized me because of my hair. I was tickled and flattered and shook her hand and introduced myself and introduced her to Sarah, who was sitting next to me. The last time I was at Barefoot, I remember thinking I was quite content with how I looked. I didn't feel exactly the same way last night, but I wasn't as far from it as I had been earlier in the day.

We ended up at the Foundation Room, flashing our extra-special membership privileges around and being treated very well. I drank too much last night. That much is clear. I awoke this morning in the 5 A.M. hour and was still drunk. And not as happy about it as I had been when it all began. The bartenders befriended us and filled our drinks with cherries. Billy Bragg was playing downstairs, and we met some amusing British fellows who were drinking sea breezes. And I'm sure I made an ass of myself in some respect. Perhaps when I was asking the guy at the door if he had two dogs. That's a long story.

I had many many dreams last night. Running from the law. Being chased by a vicious bear. Not having correct plane reservations. All sorts of nonsense. With characters from my life who are more often in my dreams than in my living room. And I woke up at one point and realized that I was crying. And the candle had burned down very low and the covers were all askew. And I wanted a drink of water.

I'm feeling terribly sentimental today. How much of it is precipitated by dreams and discussions and discoveries, I can't say. But I am feeling removed from reality and pitched into semblances of it. And I am sorry for having shed so many of my tears in private.

Secret Chinese or How I Began to Feel at Home in Tinseltown

I went to the Twin Dragon to pick up food for me and my guests tonight. When I walked in, the woman at the register was talking to one of the waiters who had just walked up. She was asking if something or someone was pretty. Once I started ordering, the manager asked -- perhaps based on my propensity to order things that weren't actually on the menu (a quintessentially Chinese thing to do) -- if I am Chinese, and I said that my mother is Chinese. He asked if I speak Chinese, and I said that i understand a little. That I was wondering what they had been talking about that was so pretty. And he laughed and told me that the woman at the register was asking the waiter if he found me to be pretty. But the waiter was confused and thought she was asking if he thought she was pretty. And the manager said how dangerous a question that is. "Answer wrong, and that could easily turn into five fingers on the face." He laughed as he said it. And I thought it the most amusing and delightful description of a slap in the face that I've ever heard.

In the end, I was encouraged to date a Chinese man. I was told that I have the qualifications to be a flight attendant, whatever that means. And I was offered a hand with the food out to my car, which I politely declined. And when I got home, I found that they had given me a free order of egg rolls. They asked my name before I left. I'm hopeful that this may be the first of a number of places where I can go and have everyone who works there know my name and be glad to see me as the Cheers theme plays in the background. The waiter at the Chinese place near my office knows I almost always order the szechuan shredded pork. He rolled me to my mother on that topic when we ate there together. But he doesn't know my name. And perhaps he never will.

"Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?"

The clouds are grey and gold and silver-lined against a fairly blue sky. And the late day sun sits behind it all. It's like the way the sky looks in inspirational pictures where the sky is supposed to be god or something. Isn't that strange? That those pictures want us to believe god is the sky. Or that he's a cloud formation. Or that his voice is sunlight creeping through the clouds above the ocean or a mountain range? And isn't it strange that I feel compelled to go back and capitalize a whole bunch of words now? Like should I have capitalized "god" or "voice" or "he" or "mountain?" I guess I have this notion that capitalization probably isn't enough to pacify god anyway. If god gets upset about how much respect gets paid him, chances are that being mindful of capitalizing pronouns isn't going to cut the mustard.

And what is this business of cutting mustard, while we're on the topic? Do I really need to go back and study the blueprints of any mechanism which isn't sufficient to cut through mustard? Unless we're talking about stone ground mustard here. Because I guess I can see that. That's a rough substance.

I don't know what the sky tells me today. And I'm no sailor, so I suppose it isn't important. I always carry an umbrella. And my shoes keep me well out of puddles for the most part. It's probably silly of me to think that the sky is any sort of personal messenger anyhow. There's very little in nature that is designed to tell me anything. That much is clear. Trees are fun for climbing, but it never feels good to have sand in your pants, and water is seldom as clean as you'd like it to be.

What the devil am I talking about? Yes, I can see how you might ask that.

Separation of Church and Mouse

Okay. I just turned the television on and caught the tail end of a vintage episode of The Mickey Mouse Club. Jimmie was leaning on the bottom half of a fictitious barn door under the rustically lettered heading "Mouse Clubouse," telling the moral of a story that had just concluded -- I think it was an episode of "Annette" -- and using the biblical story of Jesus rescuing the adulteress from certain doom with the utterance, "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone." Jimmie went on to say that we should apply this to our daily lives and the world would be a better place with more love in it and something to that effect.

So, I was surprised by this. I didn't realize that Christianity was ever part of the Disney strategy. But I suppose I can see where the twain should meet.

In any case, we can all learn an important lesson from this, even if it is a guy in a mouse-eared hat telling it to us: Don't throw rocks at loose women. Mickey Mouse doesn't want you to. Even if your tribal laws permit you to and the woman is the foulest temptress you've ever seen. Mickey Mouse came to this earth so that you might be freed from the old laws. Mickey Mouse wants you to have a fuller and richer life, culminating in a reward of eternity with him. In Disneyland, I guess.

"I'm just out to find the better part of me."

I went running on Saturday morning, and I managed to fall flat on my face before I'd cleared the first block. I caught the tip of my running shoe on a bit of uneven sidewalk and went through that slow motion ballet of gawkish flailing that can only really be experienced in that split second that feels like minutes and minutes. All at once, I felt both my pelvic bones hit the pavement, I smacked my knee very hard, and I worried that I had broken my MP3 player. I did not break my MP3 player. Nor did I break any skin, save for a tiny patch on one of my palms. And I did not injure myself severely enough to justify not completing my run. So I picked myself up, brushed the bits of grass and dirt off my pants and finished my run like a champ.

There's a moment when you're falling when you're sure that you're not. You sense yourself losing hold of the ground. Or it of you. But you reach for those invisible handholds that you can't quite find or grasp. It doesn't seem possible that you will lose control. You're certain it's only a matter of will. You can will yourself not to fall. You can choose to maintain your composure and dignity. You can choose to remain erect and upright. That makes it all the more disappointing when you fail to keep it together. It's as if you let yourself down. By not wanting it enough.

When I hit the ground, I made a sound that was sort of an "ungh" and couldn't tell if I was more embarrassed or physically startled. I'm sure I made quite a spectacle for the passengers in cars driving by. I ended up falling in such a way that my hands were stretched far out in front of me. I recall thinking that I could put my feet between my body and the ground. I tried to catch them up under me. But they never managed to find the firmament. So, maybe for a moment there I was actually flying. That's one way of looking at it.

"How often would you say you eat meat snacks?"

I am indecisive. When someone asks me my favorite color or my favorite song or my favorite anything, I panic, realizing that I don't have any idea how to answer such questions. I like all sorts of things. I guess I'd be able to say what my favorite song from late 1983 was, for instance. Wait. No. Still a tie there. Matthew Wilder's Break My Stride and Duran Duran's Union of the Snake both equally rocked my world, as I recall. Okay, so I MIGHT be able to give you a straight answer if the query created a very very specific and narrow category. But in most cases, I just have too many things that I like, and I can't make up my mind. I have to create parameters. I have to answer like this: "Well, I guess if I was stranded on a desert island and could only listen to one song for the rest of time, it might be something by John Lennon. Woman, maybe. Or Imagine."

I really admire people who have clarity. "What's your favorite color?" I might ask. To which they would say, "Green." No disclaimers. No footnotes. Just a straight answer. But then there's me. "I think green might be my favorite color. I certainly buy a lot of it. But I really like blue, too. And don't forget red." It goes on like that. Endlessly. Don't ever send me one of those forwarded questionnaires in an attempt to get to know me better. You'll never get a straight answer out of me.

When I was a bit younger, I used to find myself making lists a lot. I would write to friends in faraway places and tell them what music I liked these days. It would end up being some twenty-item list that included three albums from the same artist. Probably The Smiths. Could any of my friends have possibly found this interesting? Was I just posturing? Do I actually have tastes of my own? I guess I do. I just lack the ability to commit. I don't want to alienate the Burl Ives-lovers of the world with my cries of how great Mitch Miller is. I don't want to drive pie-eaters to tears with my insistence that ice cream is the superior dessert confection. I want to be friends with everyone. And I welcome the influence of a new opinion.

I do have the ability to feel strongly about things. But I think I tend to do it in secret. Or on a web page.

A good deed

It wasn't tonight, but Nick Swardson made me laugh on a night when I was feeling low.

April Come She Will

Today was a hard day. A long day. A day with very little in the way of reward. I feel beaten down and kicked in the teeth by today. And I am ever so anxious for it to be today no longer. Fortunately, time is on my side.

One breath at a time

This weekend, I was looking for something to wear, and I found a couple of things that got packed when I last moved and never found their way back into circulation. They were things I used to wear to bed. I could distinctly smell that bed scent in them. That warm, sweet smell that is me through and through. I got very sad for a second. That sort of sadness that comes from the immediacy of a nostalgic interlude. It passes. Thankfully. I got sad thinking about where I used to live and the bed I used to sleep in. Where the lamps were and how warm it used to get in the summer. How a long shower would fill the room with a sultry, steamy something. How candles used to cast their glow and flicker against the walls as I slept. I don't think I miss that place, but I do miss that time. As I have missed every time that has gone before. Missing it because it just darts past me, never giving me a moment to stop and reflect or to feel it or to notice it happening.

I was mentioning this quotation to a friend recently: "Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something you remember." It was said by Oscar Levant, who wasn't necessarily known to be a philosopher, but was certainly known to say things worth remembering. Isn't this true? That you seldom have cause or the chance to realize that you are happy in the span of a moment. But later, when you measure it, when you categorize it in your own history, it bears that ranking and you yearn for it, if it felt like happiness when you took stock of it. I know this was true for me. As a child, I moved around a lot. And, as was often the case with children like me, I usually despised the place I was living until I moved away. At which time I came to see it as an idyllic stage on which the glorious dreams of my childhood were played out. I remembered each place for what was good. I forgave what wasn't so good. And I forgot to consider this formula in my criticism of the setting of my now. I never told myself, "Enjoy it, Mary. You're going to miss this place when you move far away. You're going to wish you could have all of this back." And yet it always managed to be the case. So, maybe it makes sense that I feel a sort of softness about that old apartment. Even though I often thought it was the worst possible place. I am remembering who I was there. And I am able to be fond of that time because it is a part of me. Then and now.

I think there is a component to living that requires you to stretch out experiences in retrospect. Moments you can relive again and again. Sensations that can be recalled in the most peculiar and profound way. When someone touches my hand or my hair, I can go right back to that feeling. I can replay it in my mind and my body plays along. And when I swallow a great gust of some familiar scent, I am transported in the most captivating fashion.

This weekend, I was taken by it unawares. And I wasn't prepared for it. Afraid I might suddenly sense my knees going weak under the massive weight of the passing of time. Who am I now? Who was I then?

When my father used to come and visit me in the house I once rented from my parents, he had a room that was just his. His clothes were in the closet. The old bed he and my mom had shared since they were first married was in that room. And his lovely old desk with all the ornate carvings and the drawers that smelled of cedar and the candy that used to be hidden there. After my father would come for a visit, I would go into that room and just take in the scent he left behind. It would cause me to miss his physical presence. And to sort of reach for him in my head. To reach for little things -- little moments and objects that might make it seem as if he hadn't gone off so far away. Back to Europe. Back to the life he led with my mother and my younger sister in the house in which I was only ever a visitor. I think something of the essence of a person lives in his or her smell. Maybe this is just the manifestation of the simple, animal behaviors we often take for granted or disclaim altogether. Or maybe it's just me.

I have been wearing the same perfume since I turned fifteen. And underneath that perfume, there is a skin and a temperature and a musk that is entirely mine. I took off a sweater I was wearing this evening, and I pressed it to my face. It smelled very nice. Even as I thought so, I knew that one day I would remember that very moment and feel a sort of sad remembrance for the moment and for all that came after it. All that flew by before I had a chance to pin it down and make it stick. There are answers in those remembrances. Truths. Secrets. I walk back through them as a ghost. They remain still and allow me to examine them. To walk around in them and notice what I missed.

It was always warm in the afternoon in my old bedroom. The sun would make the window coverings glow a sort of buttery beige. I don't take naps often, but when I would have cause to be lying down in my bed in the afternoon, I remember noticing the light and recognizing that a day was coming to an end. Whatever else I might have known or supposed or wished, the one truth that transcended the rest of it was that you cannot hold on to anything. And that perhaps it isn't necessary to.

The days are passing. Still. But I am aware of them. And I am keeping up as best I can.

"I Don't Mind, If You Forget Me."

This is something that Yoshitomo Nara said: "After all, set apart from [other people], while sometimes falling into a kind of autism, or sometimes experiencing a self-concluded happiness, if you think about what it is you are thinking about, every time you try to confirm how you feel about your feelings, such as 'Am I afraid?' or 'Am I having fun?' or 'The sky is pretty,' I believe that one finds one's way to the real past that accompanies one's experiences. When you ate some candy and thought it was sweet, if you think about where the 'sweet' came from, don't you go back to the very first experience you had as a child, to the time when you were given the word 'sweet' the first time you had that experience?"

 
I want to go back to the time when I was given the word "sweet."

This is a stick-up.

There was a bank robbery just moments ago here in my building. Two men in ski masks came in and robbed the bank and then took off, but not before scuffling pugilistically with one of the maintenance men -- who was curiously motivated to struggle with assailants despite his apparent inability to find the time to come and fix my air conditioner.

No one was hurt. The men in blue are on the scene. Sometimes I forget that I live in a city. And then I remember.

Soaking Up the Surface Streets

Delving. Delving. Deviling?

I'm making progress and slipping backwards. Accomplishing much and undoing much more. My home is becoming more mine each day. My self is returning. But I didn't open up in the way I wanted to. I kept reaching for things that had been put away. And facing the great coring out of things that is always on the verge of occurring. I felt my well of notions drying up, and I panicked. Tried to recapture the inspiration that coated everything only moments earlier. What is the device of my distraction? It will be my undoing. I feel as if I am readying for battle. Although I'm sure I have no idea what that's like. And movie-watching doesn't count.

I'm waiting for answers. Looking for them half-heartedly. Toying with dreams of celebration. I'm adrift. Too far from the shore to swim, and yet I can see it. And I wonder if I could get used to opening my eyes in salt water.

As if at the behest of David Byrne, I have stopped making sense.

You're rubbing off on me.

Things that have been said to me recently by people who say interesting, brilliant, and/or clever things:

"I'm working like a monkey, and I'm frankly wishing the room would clean itself." ~ S.K. "I have tons of college of friends who just hang around on the net all day and talk about how interesting and underrated they are and how they aspire to greatness. I'm thinking, 'That's great, but you know, what do you do about the fact that you're lazy?'" ~ K.L. "If we expect those with whom we're romantically and/or sexually involved to make us feel good all the time, we won't find it easy to be faithful or compassionate. I think we would be better off thinking of romantic love as the deepest and richest kind of intimate friendship -- if we did, we'd emphasize closeness and trustworthiness rather than the unsustainable high for which we so often seem to be searching." ~ G.C. "You know for a FACT that Beetle Bailey was one of the main reasons you got together with him in the first place. To even suggest that Beetle Bailey might later say that you were never meant to be together makes no sense and you know it." ~ A.C. "And what's with all the people in tiny boats? Where are they going? Losers." ~ A.M.

I am privileged to have many, many smart and witty people in my life.

"Hail, Knight of the Woeful Countenance."

Jo came to see my show on Friday night. And then we met for breakfast the next morning at the Waffle Spot. Then we shopped a little and had a coffee and found an excuse to buy shoes. I scurried home for a nap. Then it was time to head north for Bernadette Peters' dazzling performance at the Orange County Performing Arts Center. Then it was time to drive home. Then there was daylight savings time to be dealt with. And running to be not shirked. And lunch to be made. And shopping errands to finish up. And a laborious drive back up to my proper home. And all the clocks in the house to reset. And a mirror to hang. And unpacking to do. And a program to watch. And a phone call or two to have.

If I just lay all the events out on the table, it seems like plenty happened. But somehow, I leave this weekend feeling -- as I often do -- that not enough was accomplished and not enough time remains. From Friday night until now, I only slept about nine hours. Why should I feel concern that I am lazy or lacking in industry? Even on the days when I have something to show for the time, I sniff at it and wish it might be something more. Dissatisfaction courses through me like the fuel it is. The catalyst of my ambition and my accomplishment. I am always looking forward, because I am always hoping for more. I am always reaching, because I covet what lies just beyond my grasp.

I have everything and nothing to prove. And many more windmills to fight.

The rain in Spain falls mainly in my brain.

The rain came all of a sudden tonight. In the aftermath of a pretty good show and as a predecessor to a fun late night out of shenanigans and the like. Then the rain came again, enough for me to unsheath the leopard print umbrella and worry for the state of my suede pants.

Other people seem to connect more deeply than I at times. I catch myself envying it. I am usually open to the depth of meaningful interaction, but I feel alien and outside of it. I feel like I'm the one person sitting at the foot of the Christmas tree who didn't get a present, and everyone else is jubilantly caught up in opening their gifts and showing them off and fawning over them. And I don't want anyone to make a fuss, so I just sit still and silent and tell myself that I didn't really want a gift anyway. No one knows what I want. I'll just buy something for myself. Oh, that's a tough candy coating I wear. One could shatter it with less than the assistance of a toffee hammer.

I think it would be a step in the right direction if I didn't always have to feel such shame about the weaknesses I fall prey to. If only I could allow myself to express a desire or to come to the table with a need. If only I could allow myself to ask. But even those who promise to be there for me when things get harrowing never expect me to hand over my claim check. And I sense my own reluctance to gauge that disappointment -- that look of inconvenience that comes over a face when I say, "You see, it's just that I've been feeling this way..."

I have no idea what I want.

Biochemistry and the Single Girl

Sometimes I can't tell whether I'm excited to be alive or just suffering from the effects of too much caffeine and too little sleep. There's more supporting documentation for the latter case, and I'm a scientist at heart, so...

Proper use of the possessive

I've got the world on a string.

Unfortunately, the string is made of some very shabby material and has managed to splinter apart, causing the world to go hurtling out of my control, killing an unwed mother and injuring two proprietors of competing nail salons in the process.

"Who Will Notice When You Die?"

I was reading this article in an issue of Mosquito. This is the opening paragraph:

Three weeks before Christmas 1993, Wolfgang Dircks died while watching television. Neighbours in his Berlin apartment complex hardly noticed the absence of the 43-year-old. His rent continued to be paid automatically out of his bank account. Five years later, the money ran out, and the landlord entered Dircks' apartment to inquire. He found Dircks' remains still in front of the tube. The TV guide on his lap was open to December 3, the presumed day of his death. Although the television set had burnt out, the lights on Dircks' Christmas tree were still twinkling away.

The same article contained a quote from Kierkegaard, who wrote in his journal that, though he was often the life and soul of a party, he was desperate underneath: "Wit poured from my lips, everyone laughed and admired me. But I went away...and wanted to shoot myself." I connected with that intensely. And with great empathy. I don't know if I am proud or ashamed to admit that. Loneliness is a fact of life. But sometimes it seems as if it is the only fact.

I don't know how much any of it matters. Or whether it's even possible to live a meaningful life. But I do know the sinking sensation of is-that-all-there-is. I do know that it is necessary for me to continue stringing together the highs -- concatenating the spells of glory and greatness -- laying them end to end so that I can continue moving forward. I don't always see life in terms of ebb and flow. Everything is very linear to me. Past. Present. Future. Now and what comes after. It's not a bladder, expanding and contracting but always retaining it's objectified sameness. It's a string, unrolling into a line. And there are points along the way. And there is space between the points. And when you condense it all down so that the points are right up against one another, long stretches of life turn into i-love-you-goodbye. What of it all will stand out when I get further down the road? For a girl who remembers nearly everything, what will I forget?

Maybe there is hope, though. When I remember me, I am usually smiling.

Keep your dirty brain off me!

My officemate is playing the Ode to Joy on her computer. It's sort of a bit of heaven, once removed. They're at the "steht vor Gott" bit. I remember singing that part. It was a challenge. But being on that stage was one of the most exhilarating things I ever experienced. And I carry the sense memory of it with me always. Every replaying of the glorious Ninth transports me. Sets my synapses firing and my brain chemistry aflow.

I'm a bit caffeinated at the moment. And plaguing Adam with the clip-clopping of the little horses on my keyboard. And I'm wondering if it ever gets better than this. And it occurs to me that that is a very adolescent and self-involved thing to be thinking. I recall being a starry-eyed youth with plans of changing the world. I gave money to Greenpeace when I could barely afford to buy my own lunch. And I was often tempted to buy myself one of those children Sally Struthers was selling. But the world didn't change much on my watch. And then I got very busy. Now, I just fill my head with rules about how to buy good seafood and an inventory of my belongings for handy reference. I don't think there is a category for that in the Nobel Prize.

I'm cold and hot at once. But it's dark outside and I can take this up with the fates later in the evening.

Seid umschlungen, Millionen! Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!

No one lives forever

I am treading tenderly today. And I don't mean "today" in the sense of this rotation of the Earth. I mean "today" in the sense of the one diorama that might be used to illustrate this era in my life, if my life were an exhibit at the Museum of Man. Such a diorama might depict me wearing jeans and boots and a snappy top of some sort. And I might have a tote bag slung over one shoulder as I cross a busy street on my way to work. Or I might be taking a picture of a dimly-lit room or a very purple flower. Just exploring this page in my imagination has me straying dangerously in the direction of a Gil Elvgren painting. How ever did that young lady manage to find her panties down around her ankles as she attempted to flag down a taxi without dropping that bag of groceries with the one stalk of celery keeping watch periscope-style? How indeed.

I am treading with great tenderness today. And wondering what goes on in the world as I sit still. And loathing the very thought of sitting still for one minute longer than is necessary to sustain life or hold down a job. I am walking ahead gingerly, careful not to bruise the grass underfoot. Careful not to awaken the neighbors. Or the sleeping lions. Careful not to upset things. I am traveling in secret. It seems. While no one is looking. But what does it all mean?

I have many pretty dresses. Smart little black numbers that can be worn with a pair of high heels and a bit of jewelry. Pretty things that are so sweet to look at you'd almost expect them to smell of peaches or apples. I have many pretty dresses. But I am almost certain that my this-era diorama would show me in jeans. Expensive jeans, but jeans nonetheless. I have many pairs of pants that aren't jeans at all. Some of them even have glitter on them. Why must the Museum of Man be so committed to this notion of portraying me in the most casual of dress? Don't they want my mother to be proud? Those jerks. I'm never going there again.

I'm fond of the French dip. But I think we are fooling ourselves if we believe that the French ever eat them.

I am dismayed at the way that electronic devices have supplanted the tangible in my life. I bought myself a nice address book a few years ago. But I never write in it. I keep all of my contact information on my computer or in my cell phone. Despite the fact that I relish the thought of having things written down on paper. I do write things down on scraps of paper and shove them in my handbag for safekeeping (which often turns out to be accidental discarding). And I do have this pleasant picture in my head of a man wearing a nice suit and perhaps even a hat, and he's reaching into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve a piece of paper that has been folded over several times. And he's unfolding it. Then he reaches into the outer breast pocket to get his spectacles. And he puts them on, still holding the piece of paper in the hand that holds the glasses. It flutters in the air like a delicate bit of wing. Then he clears his throat and adjusts his eyes to read what is written on the paper as he straightens it out, causing that sound that paper makes when you straighten it. I have no idea what the paper says. I just have this picture in my head.

I'm the sort of friend you can call at any hour of the night. I hope the Museum of Man doesn't forget that one crucial fact.

"When something hurts you, you take it out."

I am nowhere near ready to face sleep. And yet I have early demands on my brain and my body tomorrow. I suppose I shall have to pretend tired and see what comes of it. I am quite tired, actually. Just not ready to stop.

John Cleese was 24 years-old when he lost his virginity.

Savory smells and wine in the glass

If chilean sea bass is at risk of extinction, it's because I cooked the lot of it tonight. But it was well worth it. The grand fare I prepared far outshined the value of perpetuation of a species. I'm sure of it.

I adore cooking for friends. And I love the way my home smells afterwards. I love occasions and fancy plates and candles on the table and music in the air. There is something very satisfying about catering to the sensual pleasures. I'm certain I would love having a restaurant if it weren't sure to rob me of my will to live and hurtle me headlong into bankruptcy.

Every day, I find reasons to abandon my faith in people entirely. And every day I find reasons to hold on to it. It's hard to get through the mucky times when you no longer have access to the people you used to count on to see you through even the most mundane of tribulations. Is that codependency? Is it unhealthy to take comfort and consolation in the security of unspoken support? I wonder. It seems as if the only way to escape the disappointment is to avoid relying on the steadfastness of other people. And that seems like a tragic existence to choose. I want to believe in people. I want to trust. I want to relax and know that if I let myself fall, someone will catch me. I want to settle the score.

I remember when I was a child and learned the word "comeuppance."

Haze malaise? Razmatazz?

I'm not feeling particularly well-rested or lovely today. And the rude man at the parking garage started my day off on a much-unneeded wrong foot. I'm hoping things will pick up but not entirely optimistic that they will. It's April Fool's Day. Who cares.

"Whatever bubbles bubbles up."

Hours just drain away. But in their passage I run and sweat and appreciate the sunshine. I made BLTs for me and my dad today. And got my money's worth out of some of my recent technology expenditures. And caused Beulah's dog Tasha to fall in love with me all over again.

Children are having Easter egg hunts and churches have set up bounce houses in their parking lots. Perhaps to lure in unsuspecting heathens to come worship within those bouncy, air-filled walls...

Easter, pastel colors, and the scent of a fertile mind

There's a lovely fireplace at the Tiki Lounge. And Bossanova is as good as I remembered it. Although I think "rare" actually means "raw" in Portuguese. Well, if my steak was any indication...

I felt like the little figure on the cobblestone road in that mural tonight. On my way somewhere. But faceless. And small. It rained a little. And the sky was all gloom and foreboding throughout the day. Hardly the sort of setting for picking out pretty spring outfits to wear to Easter Sunday festivities.

Easter is a good time of the year if you like hard-boiled eggs.

Three in one blow

Dudley Moore, Milton Berle, and Billy Wilder all died yesterday. There are a number of rules of three that apply. Including the fact that it's three times as sad.

"The new is always sweet, and the familiar is always stale."

There are little bits of wisdom lurking right under my nose. On my own web site, even.

Persistent twitching of the eyelid

"Long ago, in someone else's lifetime, someone with my name who looked a lot like me..."

So, I know I must be tired and stressed out and in all manner of a funk. My old friend blepharospasm has returned -- for good, it would seem. Echoes of last year. Unpleasant echoes.

I was industrious, all right, but it all ran afoul. I overslept this morning and got in later than I wanted to. I guess that's what happens when you're running on Red Bull fumes and you do a mountain of housework and furniture rearrangement well into the wee hours. Deep Space Nine airs at four o'clock in the morning here. The fact that I know that is probably responsible for my sudden shortage of alert cells. Fun is all well and good. As is industry. But it's almost April, for crying out loud. And there's still so much to do.

"In a way, it's someone else's story. I don't see myself as taking part at all."

"Isn't that right, Kilty McBagpipes?"

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

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

What am I? 18 again?

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

Note: this entry is devoid of brilliance.

Digital cable is a foul temptress

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

I'm not the man I think I am

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

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

"Child soldiers to swap guns for PCs"

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

"Their son Peregrine is at boarding school."

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

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

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

The rain sounds like marching

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

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

I miss looking forward to the sound of certain voices.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only one step away..."

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

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

Mood Indigo

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

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

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

On the up side, I smell unbelievably delicious.

The cruelest thing since they shot Babar's mother

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

I get no kick from champagne

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

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

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

It may as well be Christmas

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

I have fingernails, so I scratch.

Tropic of Cold Medicine

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

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

This photo was not taken tonight.

Culinary is the worst kind of guessing

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

West Lake Beef Soup, my eye.

Tingly restlessness

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

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

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

"This looks familiar. Vaguely familiar..."

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

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

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

Rats

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

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

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

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

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

"I made you."

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

Creepy.

Space tourists

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

"They're making a movie in Sevaglio."

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

Weekend Bullets

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

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

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

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

My parents love slapstick comedy.

Everyone loves the girl who brings the crudité platter.

I can still sing relatively high notes.

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

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

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

Me and my patchwork song lyric pull quotes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Et tu, Brute?"

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

"Monkey moves cursor by thinking"

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

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

Dare to disappoint!

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

Dusky

The sun is going down. On many things.

American Beauty

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

Word of the Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They change the art at Max's constantly!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

The Borg Queen's got a plan.

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

Later that day, I drove to Vegas.

"Always Sunday"

It begins.

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

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

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

Sweet Justice

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

Harry Belafonte sings Hava Nagila

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

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

Snap. Crackle. Burn the house down.


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

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

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

Oh, yeah.

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

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

"Nano."

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

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

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

A brush with near-celebrity

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

And the fog rolled in

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

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

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

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

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

In like a lion

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last call for February

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

What was that I said about metaphors?

An elephant never...what is it again?

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

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

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

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

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

Dra to the ma

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

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

Pain. Pain. You know your name.

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

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

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

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