flustrated
Sunday 6 March 2005 | I like a cookie
Is what I am ce matin. Greatly aggrieved and suddenly thoroughly mourning my missing Librarian and even the Former Film Critic. A laconic phone message from the latter was among the squillion voicemails (and sadly, no, most of them aren’t due to screening or my being asleep—I came back from a press screening yesterday to find the digits “08″ blinking aggressively in bright red LED—but mercifully at least half of those were from N.’s increasingly desperate parents and friends, as he’s if anything worse than I am about returning calls). I have resolved not to call the FFC back—his indifferent voice suggests no meeting time or place, indicates no desire ever to see me again, just “hope you’re feeling better, catch up with you later.” Yeah, sure, see you around town. I don’t know why it continues to hurt that he is so done with me. Great surge of wounded vanity. How could anyone be done with ME, memememe? Is’t possible? Oie.
Then, I download newly anointed prose poems off the Librarian’s website and print them out and, most pathetically of all, scan them for signs of (once again) mememememe. And am rewarded, if reward it be, by hard literary evidence of a still-guttering torch carried on my behalf. A still-pulsing artery, and then I feel Bad, nay, horrible, for Ms. Librarian, who may not even know this, may be deceived by him or herself or some combination of the two into thinking all is back to normal. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her? I am Jack’s Unreliable Narrator.
(Aside: will I ever create Blog Standard? or Helf Helf, A Hellible Horralump?) (Anthony Lane: “…and then there are the Mûmakil—what hobbits call oliphaunts, Piglet called heffalumps, and what I call a hell of a good excuse to take the next available flight out of Middle Earth”).
In other depressing events, Eloise just clambered up on my arm and bit the hell out of it—the most recent in a long line of offenses which began this morning with her dragging down and absolutely demolishing two precious rolls of toilet paper. I feel these are distinct disciplinary problems and am at a total loss as to how to address them. It’s clearly not her fault—she simply isn’t getting enough exercise or stimulation from me, especially as the me is often gone to press screenings or to dismal low-income therapy or the like. Short of getting another cat, letting her out of doors, or buying her mice to chase and dismember, I don’t know what to do—she accosts me most frequently when I’m typing on the laptop, and as a partial appeasement I’ve just put her basket up here on the desk next to it. Now she’s purring wildly and having a wash, so maybe that was a good-enough-mother substitution—aaaaa, a brief attempt to bite my nose ring—okay, back to purring and licking. I remember my Boston roommate’s vicious personality-disordered Elsie and am afraid I am creating another such a one. Cats aren’t meant to be kept indoors, and I know that, and here I am doing it anyway. This is all most difficult, and I feel terribly inadequate. Which really should not come as a surprise.
Romanoffs, for chrissake, do something! The czars always were lazy.
Clearly, I have nothing to say and am taking a great many words to say it.
Now it is Later and I’m trying to post this and Weetzie is “helping.” I crabbily try to arrange books on my new shelf but the shelf is warped and the books keep falling over and I get increasingly irritated, which is not particularly useful with inanimate objects. In final flustrating news, I note that Chez Zen has a new and poorly-designed website, made by Herself’s sister. Looking at pictures of other postulants and ordained people who aren’t me, and marking the fact that if I ever want to have dokusan with Herself again I must somehow come up with $30 a month—
Somewhat amusing nonetheless: a flirtatious cellphone message from the Defunct Tenzo, delivered in his bored sarcastic tones. “So, I was just wondering how you are, where you are, who you are, what’s your name, who’s your daddy, is he rich like me, and, um, how much wood does a woodchuck chuck.” I laughed aloud for the first time in days. Forget the Former FC. Forget the Former Librarian. Cf. one of the Mucky Duck Rules for Life: “If they don’t absolutely adore you, FUCK ‘EM.”
she’s trying to sing just enough
so that the air around her moves
and make music like mercy that gives what it is
and has nothing to prove
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