“She was desperate and she was choosey at the same time and, in a way, beautiful, but she didn’t have quite enough going for her to become what she imagined herself to be.” ~ Charles Bukowski, from Factotum
Sunday afternoon. Cloudy and 68 degrees.
I still don’t feel that I can string together sentences in any meaningful way, especially since I am struggling for each and every word. I find myself staring at the screen until my eyes completely lose focus, and then I don’t remember where I was going with a train of thought. These phases are nothing new and I know that my inability to find the right words will be a reality that I will have to face again and again without every knowing why.
So, with that in mind, I think that I will just do a random thoughts post, well, because it seems to make the most sense right now . . .
I dreamed last night that the feral cats that live in the park bushes all came out at the same time and sat in a group in the entrance drive to the park. They were all black.
Brett finally got the radical hair cut he’s been pining for: shaved on the sides and longer on top. Now he’s going to bleach the tips and color them pink. It should be pretty wild once he’s finished. I can’t wait to hear what my mother has to say about it.
Actually, I can wait.
The spring pollen is wicked at the moment. Everything has a nasty yellow sheen.
So far, I am disappointed in this new season of “Dr. Who.” Just saying . . .
“How fragile we are, between the few good moments.” ~ Jane Hirshfield, from “Vinegar and Oil”
A few days ago, I experienced something that I haven’t experienced in a very, very long time: I felt pretty. Not vapid pretty, not glossy print pretty, but pretty all over, inside and out.
It must have been obvious because my PCP with whom I had my six-month check-up said to me a couple of time that I looked good, really good, better than she had seen me in a while.
Does that mean I look horrible the rest of the time?
What causes days like that? Is it an alignment of the stars?
The “I Feel Pretty” song from West Side Story kept running through my head, particularly the line “It’s a pity not every girl can feel this way.”
To be honest, I can’t recall a time in recent memory that I had this feeling, and that’s sad because it was a wonderful feeling.
“We are what suns and winds and waters make us.” ~ Walter Savage Lindor, from “An Invocation”
I finally went to a dermatologist to have the mole on my face looked at. It’s completely benign, on the surface of the skin. The doctor was pretty funny, using euphemisms for age and old, i.e. “wisdom,” “knowledge.” He said that it was what used to be called a beauty mark and that it brought out my eyes. What a character.
I like doctors who don’t take themselves so seriously. That whole god-complex attitude really breeds antipathy rather quickly.
My mother’s doctor said that the shadow that was on her kidneys has almost disappeared; apparently, the heavy-duty antibiotic they prescribed for the diverticulitis has taken care of everything, which makes me wonder why she was told that there was a “mass” on her kidneys.
So why am I so consumed lately with an intense yearning to have my flabby arms fixed? she asked, apropos of nothing.
The dermatologist remarked that I didn’t have crow’s feet, and I thought to myself that you have to smile and laugh a lot to get crow’s feet.
I go back in two weeks to get the bump on the sole of my left foot removed. It’s been there for years and years, and it, too, is benign, but I’m really tired of it.
“One got the impression that she was following phantoms; she was consumed by shivering sensations of eternally pursuing something unattainable. Something about her was tear-streaming; she existed in the midst of unconsciousness. And she could only be seen not by those who ceased lookingbut rather by those who absolutely exhausted it.” ~ Katherine Mansfield, The Collected Stories Of Katherine Mansfield
I finally got the paperwork back from the living will registry, and guess what? They misspelled my last name. People always put a y where the g goes, which makes no sense to me.
If my name is misspelled on my living will, does that mean that it is applicable to someone other than me?
If your name is misspelled on your birth certificate, does that mean that you don’t exist?
I had students in my 6th grade class who couldn’t spell their names. What does that tell you?
My last name has the same number of letters as Smith or Jones, so how do people manage to screw it up so badly?
“Lo-lee-ta: the tip of my tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.” Man, Nabokov made even the pronunciation of my first name sound sexual.
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate that my first name is associated with young girls, with jailbait, with dirty old men? It is a short poem, but society has turned it into a blasphemy.
“She walked roads no one else could see, and it made her music wild and strange and free.” ~ Patrick Rothfuss, from The Wise Man’s Fear
I am so glad that Brett’s spring semester is almost over because I’m exhausted.
I really am, exhausted, that is. Bone-weary. I don’t know if the lack of energy is allergy-related, tied in with my fibromyalgia, a reflection of my dour mood, or a combination. I just know that I’m damned tired.
A couple of days ago I pulled all of my purses out of my closet—not intentionally, but I couldn’t find the one that I wanted to use. Then my bedroom flood was covered with purses, and I was too tired to put them away, so I stepped over them for two days. Pathetic.
When I finish this sham of a post, I have two baskets of clothes to put away. I may read instead.
I love having Olivia over here, but I’m so tired when she goes home, especially if she spends the night.
Corey is supposed to be home around May 10, just in time for our anniversary. He’s probably getting off the ship at that time because they are going deep-sea for 45 days after that, and he doesn’t want to do that. I’m glad, but of course, I’m worried.
The dermatologist said that I have worry lines. I refrained from retorting, “No. Really?”
More later. Peace.
All images are by British artist Norman Smith.
Music by Adaline, “Keep Me High”
Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word
I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.
The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.
But I’m taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I’m traveling
a terrific distance.