I started off the morning crying, as one does when one works from home
and does not need to explain anything to anybody in a neighboring
cubicle. I also wear sweatpants! and a flannel cardigan with two
buttons missing, upon which I wiped my poor leaky eyes. Get this: last
night I was explaining to my friend over I think the eleventyth glass
of wine that one of my many superpowers is the ability to make my
friends cry. And then this morning I made mySELF cry! Truly we have
traveled down a road and back again.

Then I got a letter from the translator that I did the Castles book
with, back in the day, and he told me how I was awesome, and then my
day brightened considerably. Mood swing dancing: It is not for the
faint-hearted.

I
listened to 80s radio today while I did all the clever things that fill
my day. I don't usually listen to the radio because it is very
difficult to cut a dangling modifier free when one is pondering the depths of
Bronski Beat at top volume, but today I decided I deserved it. While I
don't want to crow "those were the days, back when lyrics meant
something" in the key of my dad, when I realize perfectly well that I
come from the decade that brought you "mama say mama sa mama koosa"
(though, to be fair, even that MEANT SOMETHING), I nevertheless feel
like my attempts to enjoy the music of Kids These Days are sort of
falling flat: I always go back to the Music of My Youth because I think
it's objectively better. Hey that was a long sentence. I'm just talking
about radio music, here, in case that's not obvious.

I finished Kavalier & Clay, much to the relief of everybody around
me. Man, I hated that book. I want somebody to explain to me how it got
such accolades, and I also want to never talk about it again.

Squire is back in school and it's going okay so far. He's also
restarting his Christian youth group and oh yeah that's another way I'm
awesome. I kind of want to talk about it but I feel like it's a whole
Parenting Philosophy thing and it just becomes exhausting to think
about. My day is considerably better than how it started, but I'm
nowhere near being ready to write something thoughtful. I've got a good thing on the burner, though.

Ducklings, I am sorry, I fully intend to write something marvelous every day but then I don't.

1. My grandmother could never keep pictures in frames. My parents have never in my memory had a front door that just opened. I've been trying to figure out what my perpetual house flaw is, since I am so nearly perfect in all ways. I have finally realized it, and it is tragic and obvious: I cannot get curtains that close all the way over the window. Think of the metaphorical implications I KNOW. Imagine the stress of trying to choose window dressings for the cotthut, nearing completion and currently draped in ripped bedclothes. Blinds? Curtains? What am I less likely to mess up? It was a feast of quandariness. I finally picked orange blinds. I will take pictures even if they don't fit.

2. By "nearing completion" I mean most of the walls are done. Not the electricity or the exterior or the painting or anything like that. Just: After 3 years, we have a roof and three walls. Woot. Come visit.

3. I have an odd affection that I only realized last year for putting pictures of things next to things that are related. To wit: I have a picture of a man smoking beside the door leading to the balcony where we smoke; I have a picture of water next to the plants (remember to water them, get it?), I actually have a picture of a door next to a door. So I really wanted to get a great picture to put beside the bed, because, well. When I saw these pictures I couldn't even narrow it down, because I loved them all and they were all perfect (the unlikely friendship between the winged whale and the octopus was particularly appealing) but then… skeletons! It was too good. And then about 3 nights after we hung it up I was Tired Beyond Reason and Inexplicably Sad as befits my advancing age and Friar leaned over me and brushed my hair back and talked and talked and talked to me, telling me stories intricate, and I fell asleep to the sound of his velvet radio voice and a centipede curled around my neck and I thought: good choice.

4. Also, I cut my thumb. I took a picture of it some 4 days after, so it is not THAT dramatic but I still get to invoke Sylvia Plath if I want to. So there.

I took some pictures of our recent trip stateside. If anybody wants stories, I will tell them. I am currently wondering why people tell stories in general, and am too obsessed with that train of thought to launch into one of my own, unprompted. Anyway. It was a good trip. I hope our suitcases show up soon.

I was explaining the suffix -er and how it's a comparative, and then thought it best to mention how the suffix can also mean "one who" since a teacher is obviously not "more teach". Then I thought about the suffix -est and the suffix -ist and started on a riff about how when -ist means "the one who" it is a one who maybe does a superlative job or makes superlative money. A typist is obviously more professional than a typer. A chemist makes more than… uh. And then I was in a chemistry lab and I hadn't done the prep work for the experiment. And then I woke up.

Dear brain, how can you entertain me with such varied things on a Saturday morning and yet forget for a full half-hour that I drank beet juice Sunday night before bed? I do not like my Monday morning to feature panic. That is okay brain I like you anyway.

Yes thank you I am perfectly aware that one is supposed to separate the act from the person and say "that thing that you did is disgusting" and not "you are disgusting" but you know what? YOU pull a handful of weeks-old bread crumbs and mealworms from your twelve-year-old's backpack and you tell me owning your words is at the top of your list.

I found awesome waterproof mascara that becomes waterproof upon contact with skin. This means that I can weep it off with the same amazing speed that I weep off all other make-up, and then I get these puddles under my eyes that will not come off without elbow grease, special pads, under-eye make-up remover, and scrubbing.

I spent nearly an hour re-reading old love letters today. I was looking for a specific one but I fell down a hole in which I had shouted "I love you" over and over again and 20 years later it was still echoing around. Very weird, that young woman who was very much me, with the same humor and the same way of unfolding thoughts, and also so… naked with her feelings.

The cat snores. That's unusual, right?

1. One thing I'm not writing about because I've said all I can say.
2. One thing I'm not writing about because I feel like it makes me angrier to talk about it.
3. One thing I'm not writing about because I don't know what I think, and I tend to not discuss feelings until I've made up my mind.

The result of this being that every time I sit down to write, these things are uppermost in my head. Yay.

Squire left for "school in nature" this morning; Friar and I fought last night over who got to make his sandwich for the bus because we totally aren't going to miss him at all.

It is raining and cold again today. The petunias are falling apart.

I do
not suggest reading about Harry Harlow's experiments on rhesus monkeys
as it opens a very unpleasant door in the brain and continues opening
more, and yet you do not learn much that you didn't already know.I suggest that you skip ahead in the thought and just hug some people that you like. I  would hug you right now, if I could.

We had company.

ONE
It's a white room, I think it's white, and I think that either all the edges are perfectly squared off or maybe they're all slightly rounded since the devil hides in corners. There is nothing in the room but a bed, and the bed is very comfortable and the sheets are cool and crisp at first and then soft around your body. The pillow is perfect. The room is room temperature. There are no pictures, no furniture besides the bed. There is a window in the ceiling so you can see the sky and get natural light if you want, and there are perfect shutters if you decide you don't want natural light. There are no windows in the walls so there is nothing to see when you look straight ahead but the walls that are perfectly square or maybe rounded. There's a door with a slot and through that door come three bland but nutritious meals a day, and they come and you eat them or don't sometime before the next meal comes. I haven't worked out the bathroom yet because this is imaginary but on the fly I'm going to say there's a small room off to the side and there is a shower that runs hot water as long as you want, but no bath because baths are ultimately unsatisfying. There is soap that doesn't smell like anything really. There is absolutely nothing to do but sleep, shower, and eat. The most important part of this room is that outside the room, time has come to a perfect standstill; you are missing absolutely nothing. You can stay in the room as long as you want. Sometimes it is all I can think about.

TWO
Sometimes I think any story I tell is basically like this video, which is amazing and disturbing. The story starts off all "here's this thing" and then about three minutes in I am so moved by my own emotion that I start crying.

THREE
Weeping through the story that I told only because I thought there was nobody listening is another thing I have in common with Prufrock. That and the growing old. Eliot was only 27 when he wrote Prufrock; if he'd stayed in America he would have had to kill himself like a proper rock star. I had a baby which is how I got out of choking on my own vomit or a shotgun muzzle or whatever else does you in at 27. I think my masterwork is pretty awesome.

So the metaphor this week is definitely bees. Friar talks me to sleep every night about solitary bees, making home for bees, the wonder of it all. I shaved my head and thought maybe if I dyed my hair black and yellow like the guy from General Public I would seem like the kind of thing you want in your garden, but there is nothing mellifluous about me. I'm mostly bumping against glass next to the open window, dive bombing flower reflections in pools of water and drowning in my errors, and likely to sting anybody who tries to help.

Here are some photos.

This is kind of lame, but hey! Here is a list I wrote in January (It's nearly Earth Day! I'm all about reusing and recycling!)

1. I regularly crave vinegar and salt and will eat them by the
   spoonful if I can't think of something better to put them on.
2. I am disappointed in myself for not typing with a dvorak
   layout.
3. I cannot imagine not having a "wave" keyboard and
   would rather not type than use a regular keyboard.
4. I am so angry so often that it frightens me sometimes.
5. I hate talking to strangers.
6. I still think it's a big deal when someone compliments my
   Czech.
7. I had an iPod for a year before I figured out how to use it.
8. I am extremely uninterested in how things work.
9. I like learning about how people work, though.
10. I have the rocking chair that my mother rocked my sister in.
    It used to be orange.
11. I do addition on my fingers but I usually hide them in my
    lap so people can't tell.
12. I used to fingerspell out everything people said while they
    said it, and I still spell in my head sometimes. It helps me pay attention.
13. I like the Neutrogena face massaging anti-wrinkle thingie,
    not because I have wrinkles but because it makes me sneeze convulsively.
14. I am currently persuaded that I have had a headache for two
    weeks now. I anyway am pretty sure I have taken ibuprofen every day for two
    weeks.
15. I greatly dislike questions about "favorite"
    anything, though I sometimes ask them for lack of another topic.
16. I can't sing but I know all the words.
17. I can carry a grudge longer than anybody I know.
18. I paid off my college loans in one year by living in Japan
    and not buying anything except food and kerosene for that year.
19. I would rather go back to teaching than live in debt, but
    that is only because death is not an option.
20. I don't think I have made this many "I" statements
    before in my life and she thinks she should have done it in third person.
21. When I was little, my teeth were so crooked that I could put
    my thumb between my two front teeth.
22. At one point in a particularly dissociative insomniatic
    burst, I persuaded myself that all the people I "knew" on the
    internet were actually just this one person who was messing with me. Claudia,
    whose writing skills are such that she could probably pull it off.
23. I love the numbers 23, 42, and multiples of nine up to 90. I
    like the first two because they are heroes in books that I like, and the nines
    because of the fingertrick. Oh, and I like 6 because it's Bert's favorite
    number and 1x2x3 = 1+2+3.
24. My favorite game when I was little was to pretend I was on a
    train being pursued by…somebody… and people would come to the door of the
    carriage and I would have to disguise my appearance and voice using only the
    materials in the carriage and persuade them that I was not the person they were
    looking for. This was before Jedis.
25. Sometimes I am blown away by how old I am.

So many things. This alternating incredible irritation and then delight and joy and all things good.

How
one day can be thrown like bad dice because the weather is variable and
all I can do is lay on the floor trying not to sit up with my ambitions
because I will surely pass out, and the ambulance screams up the street
so I can't even count dust motes in peace, or the doorbell rings and
it's door-to-door sales instead of packages and I have the parquet
pressed in the side of my face, and then this simple translation that
I'd said I'd do as a favor turns out to be exactly the kind of writing
I hate to read, and why, why. I should have a cave somewhere.

And then how
I can be thrown into bliss because my friend sent me a funny e-mail in
the morning and work went well and the sun is still up at 6 pm and I go
to the wine bar to meet Friar while Squire is home writing a paper on
Einstein and Dusan comes in and says hey, and then this woman I know
b/c her daughter went to 1st grade with Squire and she buys a liter of
wine in the bottle of water I just watched her drink outside and we do
the smile nod where maybe she doesn't know where she knows me from,
quite. And then we go home and Friar makes fish and peppers and then we
play cards, and then board games.

On Monday Squire got dressed in his winter coat and I said no maybe it
was time for a jacket so he put on his jacket but it was tight.
Sometimes I put on clothes from last year only to realize that My How
You've Grown continues even into your forties. His reaction was about
the same as mine: OH NOES. Then he started crying because he looked
like a "dork pencil". I remember the story about my cousin who didn't
want to go to school one day because he had a giant zit on the end of
his generous nose.I let Squire stay home.

I thought I wouldn't recognize puberty, that we would be too caught up
in everything else and that I might mistake the symptoms of one thing
for another, but if you are crying because you look like a dork pencil
then that is actually totally recognizable to me. All I can say is that
first of all, at least it is not pink satin Miss Piggy sneakers that
seemed so cool when you bought them, before they got spit on. And also:
screw them, you know? Those shoes were cool. Being awesome is
simultaneously tempered and built by people too stupid to understand
who you are.

And who you are, if you're lucky, will be a person whose greatest
irritations in life are people who don't know the difference between
"it's" and "its" and don't know why that's a good thing to know; and
whose greatest pleasures in life are watching people grow into adults,
and seventies television references, and the last cigarette before bed,
and more than can be summarized in words like these.