I'm in Berkeley, and I just went down to the little corner store. Where the guy working there smiled at me. And chatted. Asked me how I was doing and MEANT it. Each time I've come to California, I've had to remind myself to unclench. Stop scowling. Smile, and be nice to strangers by default. Cause that's how they roll here.
The friend who I'm staying with bought a bike at the flea market on the way back from getting me at the train station (where I was greeted with lots of drumming, of course), so now I have a bike to ride around. It's come in handy, though I did pretty much fall off of it on the way back from lunch yesterday. It happens, but I felt like a dumbass, running across the intersection instead of smoothly making the lefthand turn like I planned.
I also have a puppy dog to pet and cuddle pretty much whenever I want. He's been my almost contant shadow since I've arrived, which is sweet but also strangely unnerving. I'm guessing it's because I give him treats and let him cuddle with me all night. He's my widdle snugglebunny, and kept me warm during the chilliness of last night.
The house is full of hippies who eat only organic food and/or get their sustenance from dumpsters and don't flush the toilet when there's only pee in it, but they are friendly, and I did grow up in a damn geodesic dome and all, so they are A-OK.
It's been cloudy here, but I was at another friend's house today further inland, and it was bright and sunny. I thought, "Now this, this is my California."
No wonder there are so many songs about it. No wonder.
I have a bookmark folder with links to things, mostly videos, that I go back to when I need to infuse some silliness or calm into my day. Here, I share it with you:
What's on your list?
Yesterday, I moved through the day with quiet energy. I felt directed, focused, purposeful. Not frenetic activity. Ease. Contentment.
I felt comfortable.
This doesn't happen often. I examined it, turning over this feeling in my mind. Noticing how my body felt, how it didn't hurt. How my mind felt, how it didn't race. It was lovely.
It evaporated later, in a room full of people talking aroud me. I kept missing the boat, I didn't say what I wanted to say, and then it was too late. So I left with too many thoughts in my head. Crowded. And I woke up this morning thinking about bills and packing. I woke up and stayed in bed, telling stories to myself.
Telling stories of past love, past pain. Telling stories of my life to phantoms.
I'd much rather tell them to you, live and in person, in the flesh-and-blood.
I had some horrifying and bizarre dreams last night, strange even by my standards.
I looked down at my left side, along my torso. It was covered with raised, frilly growths of mottled skin, like the fungus you might find growing on a tree. "A rash, some horrible rash. I must be allergic to something." It didn't hurt, it didn't itch, even as I poked at the grotesque eruptions gently, scared of making it worse. One area was different from the pink-red frills and had specks of black embedded in it. Somehow I removed one of the specks, which dropped onto the table. It had legs, and it scurried away, a tiny black insect. Visions of the brain-bugs in Wrath of Kahn rushed into my consciousness. I freaked out, and furiously dialed the doctor's office.
I was sitting in a car, stuck in traffic. A parade was going on up ahead, and there were cars and people clogging the road. A few people in costumes came riding by on bikes, swerving through the crowd. It was my friend's bike gang, and I waved at the people I knew. As one boy rode through the crowd, a spectator shoved him, almost toppling him. "Hey!" the crowd shouted. "Not cool!" The pushy guy ran across the street, and a cop followed him, his futuristic ray-gun/taser thrust out in front of him as he gave chase. The bad man was caught quickly and brought back to the crowd of spectators, where the cop gave him a lecture, delivered in rhyming verse.
hot wheels
pretty flowers
vieve
The top three searches this month. I like the juxtaposition.
New music, from different ends of the spectrum: Camera Obscura, gorgeous and sweetly earnest ("Hey Lloyd, I'm ready to be heartbroken..."), and Cansei De Ser Sexy, rough and sexy and a little silly ("I'm an art bitch...lick my art tit..."). Both got me moving this morning.
To the gym, crunchcrunch, sweatsweat, stretchystretch. Then to get coffee and say hi to my ladies at the bookstore, who thanked me for vacuuming and straightening so marvelously last night.
It's Monday morning, and I feel fine. I slept enough last night, and had funny dreams about Kahlua bodyshots instead of molten lava and fire covering the earth (that was Saturday night).
It's not freezing cold out.
I have work this week.
My pigtails look cute.
The aliens seem to have vacated my tummy.
I have fun plans with favorite people penciled into my calendar.
I look pretty hot in my new jeans.
I leave for California in five days.
My phlegm situation finally seems to be under control.
I feel all-around all right.
I had dinner the other night with a friend, and after about 10 minutes straight of filling her in on all of my bullshit, analyses of said bullshit, and so on, she said something like, "You know, you're crazy, too, but at least you're working on it."
I suppose that's something to be proud of.
I. The Vieve
I realized this morning that I've never written about how I got my nickname, how I became The Vieve. It was during my first year of college. I would call my friend the Poopyhead (that's another story) every week or so, and tell her my ridiculous stories of love and heartbreak and indiscretions and four straight days of puking when I had mono and so on. She would in turn tell them to her friend Kiki, who I guess enjoyed them, and who eventually started asking, "What's The Vieve gotten up to this week?" And it stuck. And I'm still the same Vieve, really, 13 years later, getting into strange situations and and weird relationships and ridiculous adventures. And though sometimes it's frustrating and maddening, it's very rarely boring, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.
II. Ginormous
I just got a ginormous freelance project: 1,200 pages. The first 400 or so arrived this morning, and it looks deathly dull. It will make my head ache. Also, it means I will be incredibly busy for the next week or so, and I will probably have to work on it while I'm in California. However, it will also pay my bills for a month or more, and that trumps all discomfort and inconvenience. Hooray!
III. Grey pigtails
I was walking back from the gym this morning, coffee clutched in my hand, dried sweat streaking my face, when I passed a woman on the sidewalk. She was about 50, glasses, grey hair pulled back in pigtails. And I thought, "That's me in 20 years. Grey pigtails." And my mouth and eyes crinkled into a little smile.
IV. Broken promises
I told myself I would not bring anymore books home, at least until I had read a few of the ones I already have. But I was organizing the galleys and free "hurt books" at work yesterday and succumbed to the pull of their siren calls. Foucault's Madness and Civilization ("I do know a lot of crazy people..."); The Secret of Lost Things, by Sheridan Hay (due out in March); The Book of Lost Things, by John Connolly (I guess "lost things" is a popular theme; due out in a few weeks); and The High-Purpose Company, by Christine Arena (this one is for the Poopyhead, intrepid B-schooler; due out in January).
My unread pile is becoming a little unmanageable.
V. Halloweentown
The Nightmare Before Christmas tonight! In 3D!
VI. Old Mother Hubbard
My cupboard is bare. Time to go to Trader Joe's.
VII. Little pieces
I've been thinking lately about the people I become involved with, fascinated and infatuated with. They are lovely, smart, exciting, kind people, and I love them to pieces and always will. But most are also not so good for me, in the way I want them to be good for me, as lovers and partners. Frustrating and disappointing. But of course it makes sense, that being the rule rather than the exception. It seems obvious now, but it's taken me a while to see that. It's freeing, really, and gives me permission to excuse myself for my silly romanticism and cloudy-headed cluelessness. And permission for me to love them so anyway, despite it all.
The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning.
-George Baker (1877-1965)
There's been some weirdness today, so this is a test.
I've been having some very intense, open conversations with people lately. This is something I had never been able to do successfully, at least before this year. I would try. I would rehearse. I would obsess. And then the words would stick in my throat. They would retreat back into my head. I would feel like a failure. Emotionally mute. And I thought it would always be that way. I thought that's just how I was. But I was wrong.
I've told myself a lot of lies in my life. The stories we can create about ourselves, the self-deception, is so powerful. It's so easy to get stuck in that loop, that self-fulfilling prophecy of the limitations of our potential, our personalities, our essential nature.
I told myself I was just no good at talking. No good at truth.
I told myself I was shy. I told myself I was introverted, bordering on anti-social.
I told myself I was a "big girl," lumpy and fat.
I told myself I was plain.
I told myself I was not very creative.
I told myself I couldn't manage my life, that I needed someone to do it for me.
I told myself that I was stuck, that I couldn't change my mind, that I couldn't change anything.
I told myself I was less than, and would never be more.
Sometimes I still tell myself these things, but at least now I know what a liar I am, and I can brush them away gently, like I would a coating of dust on a neglected book.
i should go to bed
i'm sleepy, but i don't really feel like sleeping
hmm
and i feel hungry, but i probably shouldn't eat anything
conundrum
I have a huge stack of books to read, and I don't really know where to begin. Here's the list:
I think I have a few more galleys floating around, too. I think a temporary moratorium on books is in order.
I just sent COBRA an enormous check, so I can continue to receive medical care without bankrupting myself. However, since my former employer's HR department got the ball rolling two weeks late (well, and to be fair, I didn't send in the paperwork right away), insurance has caught wind of my "termination," and is now denying claims. Pain in my goddamn ass.
Can I move to Canada, pretty please? My grandfather was born there (though he moved to the States when he was 18 or so; hey, it was the Depression, and he had aspirations other than fishing), and my great(-great?-)grandfather was the first Acadian member of Parliament. This counts for something, no?
Meh. I will sort it out, as usual. Bureaucracy can kiss my ass, though.
I am wearing a turtleneck sweater today. It feels like it's strangling me. We are displeased.
A pattern is emerging regarding my insomnia. Every Sunday night (or Monday morning, really) for the past three weeks, I've woken up at 3 a.m. This week was not as bad -- I got back to sleep by 4 a.m. instead of 5 or 5:30 -- but I'm curious why this happens. I tend to catch up on sleep over the weekend, and then my body decides it doesn't need any more at 3 a.m. or so? All of the psychic bullshit that's built up over the previous week reaches its climax in my poor, addled, compulsive little brain? I really don't know. But I know this: that shit's annoying.
I'm recognizing other patterns, equally annoying but more subtle and emotional and complicated. It's hard to know whether I should break them or just live with them. Breaking them might also break a tender lovely thing that I'm not so sure I want to give up. It's hard to know. But I think I should figure it out before I break myself.
My plants have been moved inside, and my porch is decidedly less clement than it was a week ago. It's clear and cold. My ride to Sherman this morning to get coffee and a blueberry scone was windy and made my eyes tear and my fingers numb. I need a hat. I need gloves. I need warm sweaters and new pants. I'm wearing leg warmers and a sweatshirt and a jacket, and I'm still chilly. Shivery. Sniffly.
Time for warm baths and hot tea. Time, long past time, to take the air conditioner out of my bedroom window. Time to dream of tropical weather and flip-flops. Time to regret not going to the beach more often. Time to go to California in a couple of weeks and soften the sharpness of New England's brittle air.
The shift makes me think of fruit trees. Makes me think of faraway possibilities. Of coziness and comfort. Of daydreams. Of how I might soften hunched shoulders and clenched jaw. It makes me want to learn how to knit.
Simple things that seem semi-possible.
New Top Search Strings!
Today, instead of feeling like death, I simply feel like ass. It's an improvement.
Onward!
Strange day. Full of naps and guilt and amorphous longings. Loneliness. Consternation. Frustration. Ships passing in the night, almost-connecting. Kindnesses. Procrastination. Saying and not-saying, hoping that the message will be received but knowing it won't. On the whole, unsatisfying and confusing.
I hope sleep will get here soon. Then tomorrow, productivity. And less congestion.
I am miserable. Someone please fix me, or at least come and keep me company. I will provide makeshift surgical masks. I will also make you nachos, or perhaps a tasty quesadilla. Or maybe some pasta. Oh, and I have chocolate. And movies.
No? Hmph.
I guess I will just Dayquil myself into oblivion then, and float away on a hazy cloud of doped-up semi-awareness.
Hmph.
I woke up full of snot.
This was not unexpected, since I could tell by yesterday afternoon that I was getting sick. But still. I am displeased, and Dayquil has done little to quell the snot and stuffiness.
I got up and took a shower, hoping to clear my head and sinuses. Got dressed, put on my happy orange leg warmers. Listened to my voicemail, which contained a confusing, somewhat frantic message from the bookstore about the safe. (I left a note last night that we couldn't find the cash register key, which was not an emergency and has nothing to do with the safe.) OK, I will deal with that when I go down there to get my morning coffee.
As I'm heading to the front door, I notice that my necklace seems to be falling off. Reach up to fix the clasp, and... it's broken, and the beads are spilling all over the floor, into my shirt, down into my underwear. As this is happening, there's a noisy scrabbling sound of someone trying to unlock the front door. I'm cursing, trying to manage my rebellious jewelry and wondering who the hell is trying to get into the apartment. Finally, the landlord busts in.
"The water bill was too high last month! What have you been doing? Is something leaking?"
The toilet has been running lately, yes. "You need to call me about this stuff immediately!" Through gritted teeth, I say that someone has come to try to fix it at least three times without success. And also, the first time someone came to try to "fix" it, it was not in fact broken. Until he tried to "fix" it. But yes, sir, next time I will call.
He blusters some more, and I ignore him, and head out the door to get my coffee before I rip someone's head off.
Through my Dayquil haze, I straighten out the confusion at work and get my damn coffee. And check the schedule and see that I have been scheduled to work during the week I am in California. So I will have to straighten that out too. But not today.
I go and buy tissues and soup, come home and drink my coffee. So I got that going for me. I also still have tiny beads in my underwear, and I am curious and a little concerned as to where they have migrated.
I think it is time to extract them and then go back to bed. *Sniffle*snort*COUGH*
10/28 - 11/4
Back to California, where it's warm(ish). And where there is Pakwan and Ti Couz and Bluebottle coffee and eucalyptus trees. And some of my most favorite people.
Bring it!
My first staff pick! I am well pleased.
The Last American Man
Format: Trade Paperback
Price: $15.00
Published: Penguin Books, 2003
Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, crafts an intimate and vivid portrait of Eustace Conway, a true American mountain man. Gilbert illustrates the whole man: Eustace's extraordinary accomplishments (such as crossing the country on horseback in 103 days) and one-with-nature lifestyle, as well as his frustrations, troubled relationships, and narcissistic streak. Expansive and enthralling.
I've just started reading this book, Mountains Beyond Mountains, and I already want to go to Haiti. To help, to experience, to witness.
But I know I won't, and that makes me feel more than a little selfish and lacking. Ah well.
I got my first freelance check in the mail yesterday. Not enough to really live on, but enough to get me through the next couple of weeks and enough to pay rent.
I took a Tylenol PM last night, which ensured I got a good amount of decent sleep. But now I am spacey and groggy, and today is shot to hell, productivity-wise. Curling up someplace warm and finding food are the only goals I can focus on for the moment.
I woke up this morning with a lovely feeling of lightness and happiness. That exciting-happy feeling you get and that lingers, glowing, when something really positive has happened. I tried to figure out the source, though (a dream? deep sleep?), and then I lost it.
For the most part I've been feeling happy and busy lately. Exhausted, yes, but engaged and more comfortable in my skin. However, these strangely violent fantasties keep cropping up, where I imagine someone -- stranger or acquaintance -- doing something so egregious, I am fully justified in screaming at them and/or slapping them in the face, hard. I'm not really sure where that anger is coming from. I guess I should think about that more, and figure out a way to face and defuse it.
I'm finding new balance with some of my relationships, a new emotional comfort. But I find myself craving touch. Comfortable physicality. Hugs and pats and hand-holding. Cuddles and the softness of someone nestling against me, melting and warm.
