I sometimes attract boys online who say they are attracted to the way I write. This is fine, and I usually find it flattering, but some of them bewilderingly ask me things like why I don't write fiction, or short stories. They talk about going to writers workshops, and the things one does in order to get published. Well, okay. These are things that I don't really care about either way - if you want to go to a writer's workshop, have fun, but I'll be at home painting my toenails.
I guess at this point writing - putting words in order either for my website or for a letter - is just something I do. Like eating. And I was thinking about this as I was walking around campus today, so if you'll entertain an extended metaphor, the two seem like similar exercises.
I'm not going to become a professional eater, and I doubt I'm going to become a professional writer either. But I do enjoy eating, and feeding myself as much as I feed other people. I don't cook grandly, but I can cook a few good, solid meals. Sometimes I eat nothing but junk food, sometimes I eat very well. Sometimes I write the same thing day in and out here, sometimes I self-consciously try something artsy and new (which is inevitably uncomfortable, but I still think experimentation is important), but sometimes I write letters and journal entries that are like porridge - healthy, satisfying and warm. Also they lend themselves well to food fights.
When I cook for other people, it's always a raucous affair filled with laughter. And people usually appreciate that I cook for them, and that I write a letter for them, which is nice.
Somehow the thought of selling writing just puts me off. I'm a great eater, but I'm not about to sell my digestive abilities to the highest bidder.
I have a really big problem:
My floor is cold.
My bed is not.
So when I try to read on my floor, eventually I crawl into my warm, sweet bed and sleep for five million hours.
And dream about cheesesteaks. No lie. Cheesesteaks. The most beautiful, gooiest cheesesteak ever. Now I really want one, but it's a long lonely trek to South Philly from here.
Now I feel bleary and out of it. I have been reading the highly entertaining Sir Walter Scott reviv'd. It is, in fact, adorable. I will share some of the choicer moments at a later date - now I need to get my sad sleeping ass in gear and read some more before dinner.
Boy, I am zonked. I woke up early to show up for work, only to realize that I had signed up for afternoon hours. It's a little alarming that I'm already tired, but it does feel exceptionally nice to be busy and active. I'll just have to lay off caffeine at night - no more nightcaps of espresso - and go to bed earlier.
Anyway, my classes are a-fuckin'-mazing. My medieval studies professor has a black, twisted, surreal sense of humor. My pirates class is all that I hoped it would be and then some - hilarious, animated, and academically rigorous. I'm taking a literature course that's essentially the epic in translation, from one of my favorite professors. Next week, I start dance class. This will be a good way to end my time here.
I did, however, fall in the shower the other day. My toe! My precious, precious toe.
Also while I was putting my coat on today, I stuck my hand in some girl's hair. Paragon of grace, I am not.
2004-01-21, my poor toe
when they leave it's godless in the dark
There's a lot of today left. One of the things that a boy told me once that I've always liked was that "Of course there's a lot of the semester left! Just look at tonight - there's so much of tonight left." Stretching out before me, all empty and clean like a field of snow. When it snows, I like to walk in pretty intertwining patterns over the fields.
I want to write a love song to my guru. What can I say that hasn't already been said to your face? I want to write a heart-rending love story to bring you to tears. What does it matter if you never hear?
Wrap them up into a bunch, tied to a big balloon, blow hard as they go up, sprinkling and smiling through, hair trailing in the sky, ribbons of golden twine, send a cheer as they go by, full steam out of your mind...
2004-01-19, ribbons of golden twine
"Please don't tell me you're mopey because the Eagles lost."
I laughed, and said that's not it. Sadnesses just can be contagious. More than I even think they can be, sometimes.
A girl I knew from my hometown has died. I think people are trying to wrap their heads around it. It's just so surreal to be faced with the fact of her non-existence anymore. And it isn't that she was a great part of my life, and we were friendly more than friends, so I don't feel an awful loss. But it's a type of bewilderment, a great lack of understanding of death, which I don't think is going to go away anytime soon.
My mom always grows upset when people her age die, as though that in itself is a sign of her own mortality. I think it's just disconcerting when anyone dies - when anyone you once knew ceased to be.
My room is clean. Everything is in its place. I walked back, crunching along the snow, and just couldn't get over the sense that everything feels like it's changing. We're heading for a big change. I'm not sure how it will feel.
before / after
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