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Friday, November 11th, 2022
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10:11 pm
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| Tuesday, October 13th, 2009
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12:19 pm
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Rainy Tuesday. Ray LaMontagne, Joe Cocker, Amos Lee. Browsing tiny house plans. Burrowed babydogs who have yet to indicate they are ready to hike- a task usually accomplished by one of them prancing in and unceremoniously dropping their leash on the keyboard. Lentil soup is in the crockpot and I know the house will start to smell like cumin in a few hours.
I've been coming to these empty text boxes for eight years now. A girl just barely eighteen living in a converted barbershop attatched to an antiques store. The guy who lived above me was named Thaddeus and loved whistling along to his country music and running his bandsaw directly above my head very early in the morning. He'd just gotten engaged to his longtime sweetheart, and had this dumb grin on his face whenever I saw him. He called me "little lady." I know my fire-engine red hair and combat boots garnered more than a couple tut-tuts in that po-dunk town. I worked as a researcher for a doctor, reading thousands and thousands of pages about studies conducted to determine how women's bodies absorbed and used flax. I wrote articles for health journals under her name. And I wrote in this journal, under the name of a character from my very favorite book at the time.
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| Friday, July 10th, 2009
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10:24 pm - burn the blanket, shoot the light
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"Play something for me. Something I won't know." I go with one of the anthems from my childhood, and when I close my eyes and start to sing I can picture my parents' hands clasped together on the gearshift of a boxy mid-eighties toyota corolla. Before they bought the house, we spent endless hours in that car- winding on the back roads of New England. I used to think the moon was following us, and wondered how it knew where we'd be when my father was admittedly a little fuzzy on the details. This isn't normally a song I'd play in front of someone else, but the dark makes me feel brave. Or rather, okay with dropping the bravado.
Now I'm just another traveller
On another winding road
I'm trying to walk some kind of line
I'm trying to pull some kind of load
Now sometimes I move real easy
Sometimes I can't catch my breath
Sometimes I see my father's footsteps
And man it scares me half to death
But one day
"Thanks." He nudges my knee with his and I nod, and we sit there in silence for a long time just barely touching. "I should go in and get some sleep. You good to walk home, whiskey breath?" He doesn't answer, but pulls me close before he saunters off. When I can't hear his footfalls anymore, I play one more from that same album.
Burn the blanket
Shoot the light
But don't talk to her at night
Don't talk to her in thunder or in lightning
Don't talk to her with fuses blown and wires falling down
Don't talk to her when the fever is frightening
When she's burning in the bedroom in an evening gown
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| Monday, July 6th, 2009
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4:05 pm - unbound
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While at the gas station, one Gavin Freeman felt compelled to purchase a purple crocheted dish scrubbie/sponge. It kind of looks like a hackeysack. I've been staring at this thing on and off for nearly a week now. Tooling on google fails to produce the yarn you'd need. I'm not sure who is the biggest weirdo in all of this. a) The elderly lady that is making these things and convincing gas stations to sell them.
b) Gav, who picked out the bright purple one and that decided that he absolutely had to buy it.
c) Me, for obvious reasons.
current music: joe cocker
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| Wednesday, July 1st, 2009
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4:30 pm - indelible reminder of the steel I lack
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The first time we slept together was in a kitchen in Brooklyn. Well, you slept. Having stumbled from a little dive called The Alibi, we found ourselves attempting to slumber half-propped up on a small couch with an office chair for our feet. She'd snickered at me as she took his hand and led him into her room. We had one of those cracked-out conversations that are only possible after a day like ours- miles and miles propelled by caffeine and a carton of cigarettes. Only possible when you can stare at the ceiling and avoid eye contact. When your breathing evened out, I was incredulous. Taking up exactly half of the couch, ankles cross on the office chair, hands fucking clasped at your waist. In sleep I resemble a spider gone splat. It was here, while I watched you sleep, that I knew I was in trouble.
***
Just about everything in my adult life can be traced back to Penn Station, exactly seven years ago today.
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