me fail english? that’s unpossible!
Tuesday 3 February 2004 | I like a cookie
Of course most of North America, especially all of us without no television, is currently online hoping to glimpse Ms. Jackson half-disrobed. Most disappointing! I’ve seen more tit in a Montgomery Ward tractor ad. And also Mr. Timberlake is not a worthy bodice-ripper (oh, of course it wasn’t a wardrobe accident, otherwise she wouldn’t have been wearing a little strategically placed silver pastie now would she?). If Tupac had been the defrocker, that would have been worth the furor. I feel sorriest of course for the wee children who grow up thinking that was actually titillating. Cough.
This is being composed illegally, in the lull between Being with Dying and the alt weekly article on divorce. Cheery subject matter for a February night, no? The article, supposed to be a tight pithy journalistic 800 words, is currently an unhinged meandering 2,000-word poor imitation of a literary essay for Playboy. I’m wearing hat and woolen scarf and eyeglasses, Tori is singing her cover of “Wrapped around Your Finger,” and I’m realizing just how strange this all is. As it happens, it costs $25 to get married in NM, and $142 to get divorced—if you have no a) children b) assets or c) enmity. Any of those additional issues will run you between $300 and $5,000 in mediators and attorneys. Humzah! “Does this mean…?” inquired M. delicately. I snorted. “Honey, you ain’t getting rid of me in this state.” “Celebration!” he cried touchingly. “I have to go home and write my article,” I insisted, repelling his kisses. I am Jack’s unbelievably cruel and frigid heart.
I’m all obsessed with The Midnight Disease and hypergraphia. It makes such chilling ineluctable sense, and has such creepy familiarity, that I’m totally convinced. And it’s reassured to find out that blocks are often genre-specific; as in, why can I blog thousands of words effortlessly, and dozens of poems—but can hardly choke out a page of fiction at a time, much less query letters or nonfiction books about dying. Of course then the question always becomes, So now what do we do, now that we’ve pathologized yet another human behavior? In my case, I’ve decided once again, nothing. I respond badly or not at all to every med I’ve ever tried, and am probably as productive (and able to “enjoy the normal activities of everyday life”) as I’m ever going to be. A bit dismaying to view this limitation, but there you are.
I read the Umbrella’s missive to Mandarin with some misgiving and worry, or exult, or something, that his liaison with the Nematode will not last long. I also found it ironic (in the Ethan Hawke sense not the Alanis Morrisette sense) that he thinks his stature is not such to deserve a definite article, since Mandarin and I endow him with one all the time. I goes to show something, but I don’t know what. That we usually have no idea how much we may mean to other people, I suppose. Thus I drift mentally into thinking about the Young Monk, wondering if I’m ever in his mind.
Mandarin thinks cycling guys are hot, and she’s right, but climbing guys…oh man. They’re whippet-thin and have Buddhist haircuts and those tiny tiny articulated muscles in their forearms and backs—the Gay Climbing Instructor’s hands—just his hands—ggggahghghggckck. (Makes desperate sound as if peeling off 5.9 training climb, which in fact was what she was doing the last time she ever saw Gay Climbing Instructor, in May.)
Last night/this morning I successfully reset my internal clock quite violently and am now diurnal again, with the aid of caffeine and really loud music—what the Umbrella calls rebooting the system. Allons-y, back to work.
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