My favorite ride is being converted into some bootleg new attraction. This year! It's the end of all things.
Sometimes I just say this to myself when I'm walking:
I had forgotten about this line from Marina Tsvetaeva:
как живется вам с простою женщиною? без божеств?
How is it living with that simple woman?
Normally I get really embarrassed about things I've written after time has passed and I realize how many mixed metaphors I use. But some things stay okay, even if only because I am amused.
I have been writing about writing about the Vandenbergs for more than a year and a half. I have been so many different people in that time! And I've only produced an outline and the first few paragraphs of text, which involve a person opening an invitation and then showing it to another person who a) says they should go and then b) thinks about some memories. One thing remains: I aspire to be Chamomile Vandenberg. She's everything I can't express.
I keep waking up with a sense that I've forgotten something important, that I've left something behind, but I have no way of knowing what it is.
My doctor has a shorthand for the feeling of coming out of a depression. She says, "April is the cruelest month."
I hope 2016 is a good year.
Three years ago on Halloween, King Puzzle and I got creative:
Then two years ago I was left to my own devices:
Last year, I made a shirt.
And I was in a sketch group and played dress up in public on a regular basis.
Well, now is just now.
I remember when I wore a younger person's more fitted, less ambiguously athletic loungewear, I wanted to hear from voices I respected on the subject of laughing with one half my face and crying with the other.
Last week I bought a volume of Aleksandr Kushner's poetry because he was the only Russian poet on the shelves of the UCLA student bookstore. So here is this:
All of us have the same all.
Los Angeles is beautiful.
I wanted to go back and read something about the knight of infinite resignation yesterday, but all I have are casebooks and pocket Constitutions.
This week a stranger called me a mentsh in recognition of my demeanor on the phone. He explained that it was the highest compliment and obviously he meant it to apply to me in a female sense, "dear." Then he apologized for the informality of "dear" to which I replied, "Oh, it's quite all right." He took a breath and said, "Wow, you really are a lady."
It was a great personal triumph.
Mostly because the odd prosodic features of my speech are well noted, i.e. I've got a weird voice. I've got a weird, weird voice.
A few years ago, I had an intensely clear idea for a book. It's a love story--but also about economics, poetry, pharmaceuticals, and self-exclusion--inspired by a mashup of translations of Psalm 49: "The ransom of a soul is costly, no payment is ever enough." The main character, who is introduced in the second half, is named Theo. The ending is a variation of the prisoners' dilemma game. I wrote 3600 words, including a line I pillaged from another work-in-progress: "Life should not be a longing for all that you lack." And then I quit.
The synopsis sounds pompous. The execution felt trite.
It could have been garbage. It could have been great. It could still be either and at least it would exist. After all, this cutting wisdom is circulating Tumblr:
But I don't plan on taking it out of the drawer any time soon.
Other projects. Obligations. Obstacles. EXCUSES. Though mostly I blame the abandonment of this story on a shift in my attitude towards writing. If it's silly or absurd or simply pretty and nice, it's not bothering anyone. If, however, it's a ponderous nuisance, I'd rather keep it to myself. Maybe that's maturity or maybe a veiled form of insecurity.
Anyway, should it matter very much, I will say that when I've completed something tremendously enlightening for public consumption, I have every intention of forcing it in front of people's faces.
Now, I rarely write bloglets, so while the text box is open, here's a postscript:
I was struck by a literary parallel yesterday.
I've lived in Philadelphia for one whole year of my life! And what a year it has been, where actually now that I think about it, a lot of fun things took place elsewhere? Whatever. Philly!