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Interests: Alfons Mucha, Archibald Leach, big words, Bob Hicok, Brian Eno, Cat Power, Charles Bukowski, Charlotte Masaryk, cheese, clarity, dark chocolate, David Byrne, David Foster Wallace, Dorothy Parker, Douglas Adams, Edna St. Vincent Millay, E.E. Cummings, Frank O’Hara, Fred Rogers, garlic, Gaudi, Gertrude Stein, ginger, Gustav Klimt, Iva Pekarkova, Jane Austen, Jaromir Nohavica, Jeanette Winterson, Josef Skvorecky, Joseph Campbell, Joss Whedon, Just a Minute, Kate Bush, Kurt Vonnegut, laughing until it hurts, Laurie Anderson, Leonard Cohen, little kids singing, Lloyd Alexander, mandarin oranges, making lists, Margaret Atwood, Miss Manners, New Yorker, Paul Simon, performance, P.G. Wodehouse, poetry, Rebecca Solnit, Rob Brezsny, Robert Anton Wilson, Robert Creeley, salt, Salvador Dali, secrets, silence, Star Trek, Stephen Dunn, Talking Heads, Terry Gilliam, things that stain, This American Life, Tom Waits, T.S. Eliot, vegetable juice, veiled cultural references, vinegar, water, wine, W.H. Auden

spray sunshine all over the place

So much, hey. The weather is gorgeous. One could almost accomplish anything. This weekend we cleaned house, Squire under threat of "If you can't clean your room I'll be forced to clean it for you!" –this is adolescence, I guess, when that sounds like a threat instead of a treat. And how interesting that there's just the one letter "h" between the two, and yet a vast difference. A vas deferens. Oh, health class, I remember you so well. I remember everything.

Today I saw an older man wearing what maybe was supposed to be a hipster ironic shirt, or maybe it was truly vintage. "Boogie till you drop!" it said. Okay, mister. But he had varicose veins and had to walk down the hill sideways so it was a different kind of irony. Maybe he needs a trucker cap.

I like it when I exercise and an hour later my arms are all "HI! WE ARE YOUR ARMS! REMEMBER US!" trembling like a girl in the Twilight books with their newfound power. I haven't actually read any of the Twilight books; I like my romance a little pornier I think. One year for Christmas I gave people Harlequins with the interesting bits highlighted (interesting bits being both spelling errors, egregious dialogue, and stuff like "She felt his masculine desire against her." I don't wish I were poor again but it does seem that I used to be a little more creative with gifts. Now I'm all HERE'S A BOOK YOU ACTUALLY WANT TO READ, YO. HAVE SOME FLOWERS.

My windows are so shiny. Sometimes when I am cleaning I have a little narration going on in my head in which I give instructions so that other people can clean as awesomely as I do. I've done this since I was a little kid, when I used to walk my fascinated invisible biographers through my day. Being an only child means sometimes you have to create an audience. By the time I finally earned a sister I had established some interesting and fixed habits. And so here I am still, imagining that somebody is interested in my window washing tricks, but at least my narrations are mostly internal now. Also I mop a mean floor.
 
So a month until we go. Wrapping it up. Making sure the bills are paid through September, finding a subletter for the summer, making huge vats of cat food. Realizing what I simply won't get done before we leave, which is hard but allows me to focus on what HAS to be done. And in the midst of this, closing the doors of the rooms to which I will not be returning, so to speak. 

 

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