March Madness?
3 8 02
This day has started horribly- an argument with Mary and not even a face to face argument. It is my compressed day- in two weeks I work 8, 9 hr days and one 8 hour day for 80 hrs. This gives me every other Friday off. Mary does not get those days off. Today she loaded up my day with an assignment to wait for a contractor.
"He'll call and let you know when he is coming."
"Will it be in the morning or the afternoon?"
"They wouldn't say."
So I am stuck, here, waiting. The 70 degree weather (20 c), the warbling robins, the trilling finches, the dazzling daffodils, the blue and yellow iris are there waiting for me as I wait for the contractors.
The contractor called will be here about quarter to 1PM.... Yea... the afternoon is mine
1:12 not here yet.
3:15 here and departed.
"Your house is in good condition. You have water penetration and that will have to be corrected. I'll have to come back with a ladder and observe the problems close up."
"When can you do that?"
"I can come back the middle of April, give you a quote first of May, but I wont be able to do the job until the fall>"
I came away from the appointment feeling really good. However instead of heading out into the near 70 degree weather, I ended up at the office store going out of business to find a shredder to prevent identity theft. then to Best Buys to look at the latest computers since mine is still unusable, and now I am a Borders to get yet another book on writing-- Stein on Writing.
Stein:
The key to writing both fiction and nonfiction. It has to be a good experience for both partners, the writer and the reader, and it is a source of distress to me to observe how frequently writers ignore the pleasure of their partners."
Observations
What makes that girl have a Judy Garland face?
Is it her deep set, large, heavily made up eyes? Perhaps her big mouthed smile ringed by extended lips. What is she thinking as she flips the pages of her magazine? She reads with her head cocked to her left side. She sips her- white drink- milk? She smiles at something she reads, her lower lip like a weight showing her teeth. I wish I were a soul gazer because I think I would see her as a languid soul. Her body is large, her breasts are large enough to kill, I can't hear her voice; but her laugh is deep and "southern"
Sol Stein again: "Only writers, it seems, expect to achieve some level of mastery without practice."
3-9-02
I wonder how close to insanity I am some days. I am much too sensitive to beauty today to be normal. The first daffodils transform me.
I step through their yellow trumpets and I am among a strange tribe of creatures. They are not fairies or elves or remains. They are wearing yellow dresses the color of daffodils. They move not with wings but on waves of diaphanous substance more like looking at a mirage. I can't get close to them. They move away from me. Their movement reminds me of fish with filmy fins which wave in the water. A bright flash of turquoise light the false color of the universe hits my arm. It feels warm at first and temporarily blinds me. I think these creatures are trying to study me. Just as I have not seen such bodiless creatures as these, they have not seen something as substantial as I am. Once the warm light has shone on every crevice of me, it blinks off. Slowly I get my sight back and as I do, I begin to understand what they want. It is not through language that they "talk" to me; but through a feeling I have. I feel that they want to know why I am here, what sort of creature am I. and do I have a soul. It is strange for them to wonder about my soul because I have wondered that very thing.
As I am thinking this, the adils (I learned there name later), sense my need for food. A sweet bubble of nectar appears before me. At first I wonder what it is. I notice that it has a more substance then the adils. As I reach out my hand to touch it, the bubble engulfs my hand. Instead of feeling sticky, it feels soft. I pull back my hand and smell the delicious aroma of sweet licorice. I lick one finger and and am surprised that it doesn't taste like licorice at all- rather like sweet lobster. In fact it takes on the white fleshy feel of lobster freshly extracted from the tail
After eating I grow sleepy and
3-10-02
Speaking of sleepy, I have been fighting the irresistible urge to nap all morning. We cleaned up the dishes and Mary wanted to take it easy and read. I, despite the icy breeze, wanted to go out in the crisp clear day.
"Let's go for a ride."
“I want to take it easy."
After my ride through the countryside, I ended up here. You may have guessed. One mention of cappuccino and you know where I am: The cafe espresso at Borders. I am hoping the cappuccino will kick in and wake me from my stupor.
The indecipherable voice of my fellow cafe mates is more like a lullaby. The cappuccino is trying to kick in trying to raise my head from a slow molasses, sinking heaviness. My fingers are large weights; my thoughts which usually wake me up are dragging me further down, like a stone, stoned unconsciousness- consciousness. I am caught between wakefulness and dreaming, plunging, and rising.
This day has started horribly- an argument with Mary and not even a face to face argument. It is my compressed day- in two weeks I work 8, 9 hr days and one 8 hour day for 80 hrs. This gives me every other Friday off. Mary does not get those days off. Today she loaded up my day with an assignment to wait for a contractor.
"He'll call and let you know when he is coming."
"Will it be in the morning or the afternoon?"
"They wouldn't say."
So I am stuck, here, waiting. The 70 degree weather (20 c), the warbling robins, the trilling finches, the dazzling daffodils, the blue and yellow iris are there waiting for me as I wait for the contractors.
The contractor called will be here about quarter to 1PM.... Yea... the afternoon is mine
1:12 not here yet.
3:15 here and departed.
"Your house is in good condition. You have water penetration and that will have to be corrected. I'll have to come back with a ladder and observe the problems close up."
"When can you do that?"
"I can come back the middle of April, give you a quote first of May, but I wont be able to do the job until the fall>"
I came away from the appointment feeling really good. However instead of heading out into the near 70 degree weather, I ended up at the office store going out of business to find a shredder to prevent identity theft. then to Best Buys to look at the latest computers since mine is still unusable, and now I am a Borders to get yet another book on writing-- Stein on Writing.
Stein:
The key to writing both fiction and nonfiction. It has to be a good experience for both partners, the writer and the reader, and it is a source of distress to me to observe how frequently writers ignore the pleasure of their partners."
Observations
What makes that girl have a Judy Garland face?
Is it her deep set, large, heavily made up eyes? Perhaps her big mouthed smile ringed by extended lips. What is she thinking as she flips the pages of her magazine? She reads with her head cocked to her left side. She sips her- white drink- milk? She smiles at something she reads, her lower lip like a weight showing her teeth. I wish I were a soul gazer because I think I would see her as a languid soul. Her body is large, her breasts are large enough to kill, I can't hear her voice; but her laugh is deep and "southern"
Sol Stein again: "Only writers, it seems, expect to achieve some level of mastery without practice."
3-9-02
I wonder how close to insanity I am some days. I am much too sensitive to beauty today to be normal. The first daffodils transform me.
I step through their yellow trumpets and I am among a strange tribe of creatures. They are not fairies or elves or remains. They are wearing yellow dresses the color of daffodils. They move not with wings but on waves of diaphanous substance more like looking at a mirage. I can't get close to them. They move away from me. Their movement reminds me of fish with filmy fins which wave in the water. A bright flash of turquoise light the false color of the universe hits my arm. It feels warm at first and temporarily blinds me. I think these creatures are trying to study me. Just as I have not seen such bodiless creatures as these, they have not seen something as substantial as I am. Once the warm light has shone on every crevice of me, it blinks off. Slowly I get my sight back and as I do, I begin to understand what they want. It is not through language that they "talk" to me; but through a feeling I have. I feel that they want to know why I am here, what sort of creature am I. and do I have a soul. It is strange for them to wonder about my soul because I have wondered that very thing.
As I am thinking this, the adils (I learned there name later), sense my need for food. A sweet bubble of nectar appears before me. At first I wonder what it is. I notice that it has a more substance then the adils. As I reach out my hand to touch it, the bubble engulfs my hand. Instead of feeling sticky, it feels soft. I pull back my hand and smell the delicious aroma of sweet licorice. I lick one finger and and am surprised that it doesn't taste like licorice at all- rather like sweet lobster. In fact it takes on the white fleshy feel of lobster freshly extracted from the tail
After eating I grow sleepy and
3-10-02
Speaking of sleepy, I have been fighting the irresistible urge to nap all morning. We cleaned up the dishes and Mary wanted to take it easy and read. I, despite the icy breeze, wanted to go out in the crisp clear day.
"Let's go for a ride."
“I want to take it easy."
After my ride through the countryside, I ended up here. You may have guessed. One mention of cappuccino and you know where I am: The cafe espresso at Borders. I am hoping the cappuccino will kick in and wake me from my stupor.
The indecipherable voice of my fellow cafe mates is more like a lullaby. The cappuccino is trying to kick in trying to raise my head from a slow molasses, sinking heaviness. My fingers are large weights; my thoughts which usually wake me up are dragging me further down, like a stone, stoned unconsciousness- consciousness. I am caught between wakefulness and dreaming, plunging, and rising.
posted by Kajgreb | 5:07 PM
2 Comments:
Sol Stein again: "Only writers, it seems, expect to achieve some level of mastery without practice."
Yes, this is true!
I read all - am too tired to comment. I do not like Judy Garland's face even though I like/liked her. Tragic!
I am finding it hard to keep up with this backward journal (grin)
Hey, love the excerpts from Stein. Post more excerpts on writing. I lap it up like a thirsty dog under a summer sun.
Really enjoyed your paragraphs on becoming a creature moving through the daffodils!
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