"Don't be afraid, you have just got your eyes closed."

Is it true? Can peace and serenity be found while drinking Dr. Pepper from a paper cup? No. I was wrong. But for a moment there...

I am listening to music that is making me tingle from head to toe. I don't want to move a muscle. I feel as if inspiration is on the tip of my tongue and and and -- I can't quite grasp it, but it's there. Everything is churning inside of me, building.

And then the song ends.

"You just haven't earned it yet, baby."

I wasn't raised to see things for what they are. The glasses are always rose-colored. Sweet accordion music is always playing off in the distance, and the smell of fresh-baked bread abounds. But to accept that romantic notions are only for the foolish would deny me the heart swells that come with a glimpse of a particularly beautiful moon or the sighing that follows a whispered sentiment, as long as it's a sweet one. To forsake all belief in the possibility of something perfect and wonderful would feel like signing up for an eternity in an iron lung. No. Not me. Not while there is a lyric left in me. Not while there is a new shade of lipstick to be bought. Not while there are smiles and surprises and supper clubs.

But then I once wanted to go to clown college, so what do I know.

"I'll wear the red dress tonight..."

My office -- like a microcosm of my existence -- is by turns too hot and too cold. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection, I am by turns pleased and disappointed. I'm backing up, in preparation for a great leap forward. Or slinking away in shame.

I'm in a warm eddy, but the cold is on my shoulder. This is not a metaphor.

Poems stolen from other pages

Ask anyone who knew me in high school: I wrote the best notes. They were long and fleshy and full -- folded pages, covered corner to corner in tiny penned print that my tiny hands had taken great care to transfer. If you got one of those notes, you felt lucky about it.

A boy who was not yet my boyfriend, but one day would be, received notes from me with the margins littered with scattered lyrics and pieces of poetry and sometimes great, long poems inspired by other great, long poems -- often not written by me.

It seems that I remember
I dreamed a thousand dreams
We'd face the days together
No matter what they'd bring
A strength inside like I'd never known
Opened the door to life and let it go

This sun may shine forever
Upon the back of love
A kingdom raised from ashes
And held within your arms
And should the rain break through the trees
We'll find a shelter there and never leave

I'll run to you, nothing stands between us now
Nothing I can lose
This light inside can never die
Another world just made for two
I'll swim the seas inside with you
And like the waves, without a sound
I'll never let you down

Upon a wave of summer
A hilltop paved with gold
We shut our eyes and made
The promises we hold
A will to guide and see us through
I'd do it all again because of you

I'd tear my very soul to make you mine

"Who is this David Sylvian guy, anyway?" he asked.

I remember when I used to take such pleasure in discovering beautiful words that conveyed sentiments too big for my heart and too dangerous for my tongue. My cowardice found relief in the shared experience of songwriteres and poets who seemed to know what it was like to go to sleep at night, wondering if you would ever find the courage to let a word sing with welcome or to let a smile turn into a kiss. Sometimes I find myself missing the uninformed innocence of adolescent longing. I wondered for a long time if I would ever be loved. And back then, that made me a moony-eyed teenager with an overdeveloped sense of Hollywood endings and dimestore novel romance. To wonder such things today is far less charming.

Out upon the open fields
The rain is pouring down
We're pulling up the sheets again
Against the passing tides of love
Every doubt that holds you here
Will find their own way out

I will build a shelter if you call
Just take my hand and walk
Over mountains high and wide
Bridging rivers deep inside
With a will to guide you on
Your heart will need no one
Those days are gone

Baby, I can tell you there's no easy way out
Lost inside of dreams that guide you on
Baby, I can tell you there's no easy way out
Soon the guiding moonlight will be gone

Out upon the ocean waves subside

People sometimes take such things the wrong way, but I'm inclined to say that if you do not own and love Gone to Earth , you're a big fat idiot.

I'm gay, but you're beautiful.

In the midst of a heated but pleasant discussion about Christianity with a gay, non-denominational protestant college professor from Oklahoma, there was a pause when he leaned across the bistro table and said, "You're a beautiful woman." I thanked him. He followed that with, "I'm totally gay, but you're really beautiful." I considered it a fine compliment. Although I wondered if it was part of a plot to disarm me in my discussion points so that he could stealthily convert me to his faith. Later, he spilled a white chocolate martini on me.

"I'd be safe and warm, if I was in L.A."

With the exception of my continuing desire for fried chicken, things are looking all right. Although I had some very upsetting dreams. Very upsetting. The kind where you wake and have tears in your eyes. I could pull quotes from plenty of songs about summer. But I'm not feeling it, for some reason. It's warm, and I'm listless. The old childhood wanderlust rears its head again. Each year, at this time, it's almost as if I'm molting. I need to get out of my skin and start over. This time with more laughter and a good deal more of the extraordinary.

First Day of Summer, Ahoy!

I don't really care that it's officially summer. I no longer live on the academic calendar. Summer doesn't mean lazy days of watching morning news programs and 3-2-1 Contact. Summer doesn't mean fixing myself a lunch of Spaghetti-O's and wondering if I can get someone's mom to drive me to the pool. Summer doesn't mean much of anything to me now. It means my office will be hotter. And I will get a few more freckles. And I will have to start running earlier in the day if I don't want to develop some form of Hollywood asthma. If anything, the advent of summer just makes me bitter and envious that other people are planning trips and buying vacation packages and packing things in a cooler and hitting the road. I want to be going somewhere. I want to be having an adventure. I'm due.

Ironically, the first day of summer in Los Angeles was -- at least for me -- a gloomy, hazy, chilly day with little in the way of motivation and much in the way of annoyance. But, I have a party to go to. Maybe that will shore things up. (Between you and me, I doubt it will, but I like to give the impression of hopeful optimism to people who don't know me that well.)

I bought some nice things at Banana Republic today. And I wore pants that look nice on my fanny. And I had a hot dog at a hot dog cart for lunch. That sounds nice, doesn't it? Leave out the part where the hot dog was rolled by the wind and lost all it's sauerkraut and other colorful dressings. And the part where the seemingly endless twists and turns of the two parking garages that had to be navigated made me full-tilt nauseous. With those exceptions, it was as nice as it sounds. I should go shopping at lunch more often. It makes me happy.

So, it's the first day of summer. Mark it. When it's the first day of autumn, you can look back with me and we can marvel together at how little we've managed to do in the interim. Or we could rail against that fate and spend the coming few months building elaborate cities out of popsicle sticks, submitting sweepstakes entries, and avoiding the law. Then, come autumn, we can write our memoirs and sell them for a MINT! That way, next summer, we'll be able to afford to take a nice trip somewhere and have done with all this bellyaching.

Even-Numbered Star Treks. Odd-Numbered Beethovens.

It's a happy moment when one returns home in time to find the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch playing on the television. I used to have a great great great big poster of John Cleese in all his lanky, crooked-legged glory hanging above my bed. It was an enormous poster that I bought from a tabletop vendor at the local college when I was killing time before a class. Some nonsense class, to be sure. I recall allowing my father to talk me into throwing it away when I was moving. Remind me never to take advice from my father.

Those between-class minutes spawned a great many good purchase decisions. Crime and Punishment. A few of the old Matt Groening ...Is Hell books. Love Is Hell. Work Is Hell. Life Is Hell. I was an odd one back then. I treated a college bookstore in much the same manner I would today treat a Borders. I would go browsing and buy textbooks for classes I was never going to take. Just because they looked interesting. I was also a bit of a sucker when it came to buying the new books instead of the used. I'm a girl who sometimes believes it's better to pay more. (Note: It isn't.)

I also bought stacks of greeting cards I never got around to sending. They populate a number of shoeboxes I occasionally run across or accidentally dump out. I bought them with the best of intentions. But -- much like the wieners-to-buns ratio dilemma -- I never thought to buy a congruent number of stamps.

Interestingly enough, I shop at the post office in much the same fashion I once shopped at college bookstores. I feel tempted to browse for extra things I should buy in case I ever need them. This is how I ended up with a special collector's edition matted display of Alfred Hitchcock commemorative stamps. Don't impulse-shop at the post office. You're much better off limiting your unplanned purchases to chewing gum and the king size versions of popular candy bars. Of course, those same grocery store displays have nearly prompted me to buy boxes of cigars. Because they were there. And they had inviting names. And I didn't have any at home. And you never know when you might need one. Sure, there's no longer cause to fear that Burgess Meredith is going to unexpectedly show up for dinner and require a fresh stogie, but I'm sure there are other people who smoke those things.

I hope I never find myself checking out of a store with an impulse display featuring macaque monkeys and catalytic converters. I've got no place to keep such things.

Can do. But won't.

Red Light District

"Change the world one mitzvah at a time."

I took a different route running today. Halfway through the swoony miasma of old lady perfume that surrounds the faithful synagogue-leavers, I turned south and ended up seeing much that I drive past but never have a chance to examine. Including a paper sign informing me that Woop Doody closed early today and that apologies were expressed for any inconvenience. I wasn't inconvenienced in the slightest. There's a big fat bear in a bellhop suit outside a flower shop and a field of delicious long grass that I would love to lay down and take pictures in. And billboards look entirely different from the sidewalk.

The BBQ place says it's been "Smoking since 1938." The bakeries all smell sweet and sinful. Even the one that claims -- by way of it's neon signage -- to be "Famous for Quality," though it is clearly not famous for its working neon signage, as that sign has not been properly lit in all the months I've lived here.

Fish must be on the menu at the Cuban place. The whole block is being clued in. Not just me.

I kept feeling myself starting to cry while I was running. Making me a certifiable crazy person. Why would one cry when one's MP3 player dishes out "Sexual Healing" and the world is sunny and sweet-smelling. I cry far too often. I'm thinking about looking into Botox.

Yesterday, at the office, a woman called my desk to ask about where to deliver floral arrangements for a funeral service for a woman whose name I did not catch. And I thought, "Is that how it's going to happen? Is the grim reaper going to ring me up, while I'm waiting for Acrobat to distill a postscript file, and say, 'Where shall we have the flowers sent, Mary?'" I wonder whether I'd bother going out for lunch after that.

I wish there was some way to catalog my inspiration while I'm running. I fear I've already forgotten a dozen other things I was going to write. And sitting here now, I'm just sweating all over my keyboard and feeling as if I'm going to be late for something. There was lettering that made me want to come back and take pictures for fonts I will plan to make but never get around to. There were garage sales that I was tempted to peruse, except for the fact that I carry no money and have no means of carrying a four-panel shoji screen home the mile and a half it would have been. And a beauty salon that proudly announced, "Walk-Ins Welcome," was inviting to me. I want a haircut. But the absence of money on my person once again poses a problem.

Next time, perhaps I will just take a walk and go to the park and bring a wallet.

My lungs hurt while I was running. Maybe Los Angeles is trying to tell me something.

Gurn

There was no shortage of things today. From waking to now -- moments before the great sleep ritual begins -- I've been swirling around in a torrent. I had reason to walk in the sunlight today. I had reason to sigh and shake my head. I had reason to write a great deal. I visited places I love and places I'd not yet been. I bought things I wanted, never mind whether I needed them. I made friends with a bartender, although I suspect he'll forget me -- despite the largesse of my tip. I helped friends and muddled through. I scanned pictures in the wee hours. I approved of myself at various points along the way. I leaned into the wind. I strode with confidence. I told stories that I love to tell and laughed before I got to the end of them. And I think I may have impressed a few people. Which is always a bonus.

When I tuck in tonight, I will be thinking about the stars I can't see because of the bright fact of the Los Angeles night sky. I will be remembering stars on hilltops when it was night and it smelled sweet and no one was looking and playful romance was on the menu. I will be remembering that sleep comes in many places and that dreams carry more in them than the passage of time. I will think about Battleship Brand clams in a can and nights when I did not know to worry. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever seems to. I am where I was. I am where I am. I am on the verge of something. And getting to it hurts. As if I must pass through my own flesh to get there. What treasure could there possibly be hiding so deep inside of me.

I try never to hurt anyone. Am I the only one?

Do your worst

I am wondering, wondering. I can't sit still for wondering.

Why am I always in so much pain? If I were a pack animal, they'd have shot me by now and put me out of my misery.

There's a clog in my poetry all of a sudden. I don't quite know how to dislodge it. But I feel it all backing up. Bottlenecking. Intensifying. Furious words waiting to get out. Fiery phrases that don't care that the Lakers won again. Verse that pulsates, irrespective of time or state or twinges. It's all waiting. And I have no means to free it. I am powerless today.

Arguments, Angst, and Plenty of Fish Maws.
Antidote for Ennui or Sinister Harbingers of a Week of Sleepyheadedness?

This weekend was one that seemed to spiral out of control. The beginning seems so far, far away from the end of it. I lived a few lifetimes in the interim. There were fallings out and fallings in. Dashed plans and resurrected disappointments. I'd like to think I make each day count. Today, I spent too much time in the car and too much time frowning. But there was also a great deal of laughing and clapping and good-naturedness.

And I ate fish maws. I would type "ha ha," but the laughter I am issuing is more the closed mouth variety. More of a "hm hm." A Chinese restaurant is as good a place as any to test the limits of your gross-out threshold. Mine, as it happens, is very high.

And I just drove 130 miles. What in the world was I thinking?

"We are clever, too."

Movies are a treat. Nice guys who give you free soda refills at the concession are, too. And Christopher Lee playing the bad guy tops it all. What's a nice girl like me doing out on Hollywood Boulevard so late at night?

That's what. Bravo, Mario Bava! I'm a sucker for Technicolor.

Fame amongst the porcelain

See? I was on Bathtub Girl's live show. Here's proof.

And she wrote about the evening in her blog, where I am pictured from the back as just a fall of reddish hair and referred to as "an attractive asian girlfriend of Jo's whose name escapes me." I can deal with being marginally forgettable. But I wish I was being immortalized with more than just the backs of my knees showing.

"Four long years, one leaner than the rest."

Secrets keep me from safety. Lies deliver me into the eager hands of foolishness and danger. I make bad decisions. Sometimes I am given a hand in that.

Heart-shaped hedges, Japanese gardens. Heart-shaped hedges, Japanese gardens.

The marble in the stairs is worn down one side.

Somehow, I ended up at the apartment of Bathtub Girl tonight, and I appeared on her live webcam show in a see-through shirt and plugged my web site and took pictures on the rooftop and had a cool, cool time. Afterwards, I made it to the Downtown loft party I had originally intended to get to. I'm too tired to post pics at this very second, but I do have pics to post. Wait and see.

P.S. It's all who you know.

"What are we coming to? No room for me. No fun for you."

Sound + Vision. The first part. Star Shoes. I could have been seeing Eric Idle last week, but I was shooting pool and had no idea. I could have been doing a lot of things.

I am devilish sleepy. Or maybe not so much sleepy as bereft of the ability to press on. I want to be nestled somewhere. Anywhere. I want to be slumbering with an angelic smile on my lips and the sound of sweet, sleepy breathing in the air. But I can't do any of that from here, can I?

Sheep on the Horizon

Blue. Black. What aspires to the extraordinary. White space. Meetings. God beams. Interplay. Smiles. Whispers. Secret photographs. Sudden shyness. Sudden brashness. Blue. Black. Arms outstretched. Arms folded. Hands in pockets. Sunglasses that slide down on the nose. Hot dog cart wishes. Lilacs. Wizard of Oz. Crosswalks. Calm concern. Kind commentary. Plans. Plays. Uncomfortable silence. Unexpected everything. Cool drinks. Mirrors. Blue. Black. These are things that happened today.

I sometimes catch myself sitting doubled over. As if to shield my heart from everything else in the room.

More Mileage

I looked up and it was exactly midnight. 00:00. Like catching the zeroes turning over on your odometer as you head out on the open highway. It's not significant. But I was there to see it.

Innocent bystander signing off.

DO NOT DESTROY

Someone's got death on the brain.

The world seems particularly lonely to me today. Connections seem fleeting. The little bonds seem oh so tenuous. I've been living it all on the interior for a while. Maybe that's where it comes from. The inability -- the reluctance to let the questions surface.

After Saturday's shows, an air conditioning problem in the theater drove us all out on to the rooftop, beers in hand. I put my tennies back on and climbed up the ladder through the hatch. The roof felt soft underfoot. And the line outside Bar Dynamite was distractingly long. I appreciated the lights and my distance from them. I felt myself wanting to be carried off onto the freeway. Northward. We did notes. We drank. We laughed. We told titillating stories. Well, I did, anyway. And the night felt young, even though we were well into the wee hours before I ventured back home.

But even when I'm in the reassuring clutches of a kind embrace, I am keeping secrets. And there is a sort of tired urgency tugging away at me. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Did that bit in the movie strike you the same way? Did that song send a fizzy feeling into your belly like it did mine? Does the smell of the next day mean anything? I ask no one. I am answered accordingly.

I laughed a great deal this weekend. And toyed with tears. I made more of my time than I might have. Less of it than I could have. I never quite went to sleep.

Sepulchral masks in the museum. Six Feet Under. The daily news. No wonder I'm thinking of dying.

"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.