You know, there are two kinds of politics in the world: the politics of love and the politics of fear. Love is about cooperation, sharing and inclusion. It is about the elevation of each individual to a life neither supressed nor exploited, but instead nourished to rise to its full potential – a life for its own sake and so that we may all benefit by the gift of that life. Fear and the politics of fear is about narrow ideologies that separate us, militarize us, imprison us, exploit us, control us, overcharge us, demean us, bury us alive in debt and anxiety and then bury us dead in cancers and wars. The politics of love and the politics of fear are now pitted against each other in a naked struggle that will define not only the 21st century but centuries to come.    - Granny D (via Peevish)

September 1 2003 Rabbit. Rabbit. Because something has to work.

Yeah. It's different. And yet it's the same. I'm stuck in my limitations.

Life without comments. It's interesting. It makes me a little bit sad. It's sort of like waiting for mail that never comes. Or sitting by the phone. And it makes me think about how having comments has changed the way I write. Somewhat. It's just an interesting thing to feel through.

Did you know that beautiful people make more money?

What does that reveal?

Susan blogged about Aung San Suu Kyi's hunger strike. I get my news on the blogs. Since the media can't be bothered to report real news. If it weren't for the alternative media, I wouldn't know about anything other than who Arnold is supposed to have done twenty years ago. Like I care. Meanwhile women are starving  and waiting for judgement and we obsess about a pretend kiss.

And it's Labour Day. Let's think about Mother Jones marching to Long Island to speak out for children.

Oh. I'm feeling a bit wound up.

                                     9:23 AM

September 2 2003 Book TV was rebroadcasting the Harlem Book fair all day yesterday. The panel of women talking about writing memoir was one again. I found it deeply comforting and frustrating. There was another panel on publishing.

Every day I click on publish. It's so easy.

Sigh.

There was a man I knew a long time ago. He was a friend of a friend. He was really really smart. Almost too smart. But he couldn't quite get his life together. He was sleeping on my friends couch. He finally got a job running a fork lift.

Every evening I would here his car pull into my drive-way. I would have dinner ready. He would fix something. Stabilize the leg of a table. Rewire a light fixture. Make sure the wire running to the stereo didn't show. He also did my drugs, ate my food and took command of the remote control. And I didn't mind.

I woulda married him.

I wasn't in love with him. But I liked him. A lot. And I liked hearing his car in the drive-way.

People in town thought we were a couple. He was always there. Except for when he was sleeping on my friends couch.

A few years ago he got my e-mail address and wrote to apologize for taking advantage of me. Which I thought was sweet. we didn't really keep writing.

I keep thinking about him.

I'm such an old curmudgeon now. I'm too used to living alone. But sometimes I just want the simple things. The sound of a car in the driveway.

                                     8:57 AM

September 2 2003 In my earlier post I typed here when I meant hear. I was just rereading and I noticed it. I could edit but I'm leaving it so that I can write about how frustrating that kind of mistake is. I made them all through Avoirdupois. I caught them sometimes but not always. Spell check doesn't save you.

But why does it happen? People tell me not to worry. Everyone does that when they're typing. But I don't think everyone does. Is my brain going?

I misspell things on purpose sometimes and make up words. But I make this kind of mistake so often. It's like my brain just takes a break.

Sometimes I worry.

                                     12:22 AM

God puts these things in his pocket. He's got too many pockets really, if I went through all of God's pockets I might find my skin again. I need to get back into my skin. Reckless God perched on the wire. -Rickie Lee

September 3 2003 At about 5:00 PM I noticed that comments were back. Kell left one. I reloaded the page and they were gone again. They still seem to be down. Blogspot went down at some point.

It's enough to make ya paranoid.

I got into a reminiscence about books that I once owned and lost to my wandering life. In high school I spent every penny I earned babysitting, or making grilled cheese sandwiches at a drug store (the name of which I never remember, but George does) counter, on books by Kerouac and Hesse and DH Lawrence. And all the journals of Anais. All the pocket poet books. And books by Fritz and Barry. Lot's of books that I stored in the basement of a friend's house when I left home.

In my New Age daze I had books and books and books. I still have The Course but I lost my Autobiography. Also in a box. In a basement. Or I don't know, maybe they've all been distributed.

I spent time last night doing searches for books I once had and wishing I was one of those people who can still open the copy of The Prophet she read when she was sixteen.

But I'm not. I still have that pottery book though.

I used to love to crack a book. I loved that feeling, right in the middle of the book, when you crack the book wide open. But now I never crack books. I'm so careful with my books that once a teacher thought I hadn't done the reading because the book looked so pristine.

Sometimes I think I want a copy of all the books I've ever read. I want to reread books that were influential in my youth and see if they still feel the same. But, of course, they wont. Cornell West says he rereads Chekhov every year.

So.

Sharon posted something on SMTD. It's been hard to get these people going on the blog thing. Which is sad because they have such great conversations on the list serve.

This is cool.

                                     9:14 AM

September 3 2003 Shit! I did it again. I typed wont instead of won't. It kinda changes the feel, doesn't it? I used to want a partner for reasons of lust and longing. Now I just want a live-in editor.

Well. OK. I still do feel lust and longing.

I want to be more like Emily. I just want to write stuff and put it in an envelope. But I don't have a father who lets me live at home. So I worry the writing. Suddenly it needs to be good enough.

What the fuck does that mean?

The only way I can fight all the teeth gnashing and hand wringing is to take deep breaths and feel through it. And then when my fingers hit the keys I just try to ...

Well. I'm not sure what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to do something that has a rhythm. And a shape. But isn't over worked. I would like to type the word I actually intend. Focus. Focus. I keep saying to myself.

I'm feeling toward this thing. And I want it to be pure. But I need to connect.

The comment thing has been a drag. But it has been good too. I feel pushed in. Deeper. Because if it's going to connect I want it to connect in the deepest place.

After all this storm there ought to be a rainbow. It must be here somewhere.

                                     4:34 PM

September 4 2003 Alexandra came over for dinner. I made the gaff of all gaffs. Usually, when people are coming to my house for dinner, I ask them if they have any allergies, or things they hate. But I just didn't think to ask Alexandra. And then I made things that were not exactly right.

I made a salad with green leaf lettuce, goat cheese, candied walnuts and yellow beets. But Alexandra wasn't sure she liked beets. That wasn't a big deal. I just didn't give her too many. And she did like them. Coz I cook em good.

Heh.

But I made lamb chops. And ... she doesn't eat lamb. And lamb is one of those things that you have to know about. Because people don't like it. But I had these fresh figs. And my whole thing was about the figs. So I had to think fast. I had some Aidells in the freezer. I cooked it with the shallots and the figs. All of which went on cous cous. And it was all good. But I felt like a dummy head. Why did I forget to ask?

Am I being too hard on myself lately? Is this all normal for a woman my age? Maybe. I guess. OK.

Dinner was nice. She brought some chocolate cake that she had made. We drank wine and talked and talked and talked. When she left I listened to Miles and read some blogs.

She brought me three white lilies. They are absolutely statuesque and grand.

                                     9:32 AM

September 5 2003 Did you feel that?

Cynthia very kindly took me to dinner. Right after we got there we felt the thunk. We chatted with Flora about earthquakes and ate our squash blossoms stuffed with ricotta. It is funny that you can feel a quake and keep on doing what you're doing. This wasn't a big one. I think if it was a big one we might have been more distracted by it. But we had lots of talking to do about writing and school and how good the food was tasting.

So. YACCS will be back in three days. Or so they say. And I seem to be caught in a weird game of how long can you stand it. I don't know why. When Type Pad came out I was going to jump on it. But I am unemployed. And, of course, I want Pro. And of course I want to pay for the year so I get the two months for free. So I muse and puzzle and drive myself crazy. And soon the three days will pass and YACCS will be back. And then I can stop pretending I don't miss my comments. This morning I noticed that there's a little line where the comments are supposed to be. If you click on it you get the whole story.

I can touch my nose and it doesn't hurt. Which is good. Because since I got the piercing it has hurt to touch my nose. For the last few days I've noticed that the pain is less and less and now, pretty much gone. It gets a little sore right after I clean it. But it seems to be healing very nicely. It's another one of those things. You never know how much you touch your nose until ...   

                                     8:39 AM

I'm not talking about an idyllic past. I'm talking about a brutal today in which ordinary hard-working people are being denied their survival. I am talking about a today in which a Ganges that belonged to all is starting to belong to one company. A today where in Kerala water rich abundant rain women have no water because Coca-Cola took it. It's not an idyllic past for me. It's a violent today for which I am seeking a non-violent response.  - Dr. Vandana Shiva

September 6 2003  Paul is moving and I get to do some posting on Big Fat Blog. It's funny how nervous I am about it. I feel like I'm writing on Paul's wall. Not because of anything he has said or done. He's just the coolest. I'm just kind of loopy about things.

This is kind of funny. I'm feeling self-recriminating about how self-recriminating I've been lately. Ai Yi Yi. I think it's because I'm looking for a job and a publisher. Two things bound to bring up the "not good enough" syndrome. In the moments when I am aware of it all I can calm myself down and know that things will work out. Sooner or later. One way or another. And then I'll notice that I'm doing a lot of negative self speak.

bell hooks writes about the way women do negative self-speak in an attempt to not seem too challenging. She thinks we do it most of all when we talk to each other. And I think she's right.

But I think I'm feeling the need for a lot of reassurance lately. Which is understandable. And I get a lot of reassurance. And support. For which I am deeply grateful. I think the negative self-speak is an unconscious reflex. It's like I really need to have someone telling me I'm OK. And it annoys me that I need this. So I become indirect.

I've always felt like it's good to tell the truth about your stuff. Some of the power of the stuff gets fucked with when you talk about it out loud. But, as with all things, there's a line that you cross. Lately I feel frustrated with myself a  lot. And I think some of that is just my stuff. And some of that is my stuff on steroids.

I'd like to feel like I had more control over it all. Like I can just tell myself to knock it off. But it is, by it's nature, not controllable.

Now was devastating last night. So much information about how women are paying the price for globalization. Global Woman had the same effect on me. My teeth begin to clench. My throat gets tight. If you didn't see it, this is worth a read.

                                     9:25 AM

September 7 2003  It's too quiet.

                                     11: 29 PM

September 8 2003 I don't feel good. I think it might be hormones. But I didn't sleep well. I have no appetite. And I'm achy. And I'm weepy. I really think it's hormones. So I'm late to the blog. I tried earlier but I was too fussy.

It sucks because I was feeling like I was trying to psyche myself up for a new start this morning. And I'm just not feeling new. I'm feeling old and worn out.

Warren is gone.

Theoretically, comments will be back by this evening. Which will be cool. I'm not sure if I'll move the tag board to the side. it's fun. But I'm worried that my page will load even slower. I'm hoping that the new YAACS server will speed up my page. We'll see.

This is very cool. (via wanna write?)

                                     11: 36 AM

September 9 2003 Kell hipped me to the Bravo documentary about reality TV. And despite the fact that the only reality TV I ever watched was my boyfriend's show I was intrigued. I mean Bravo used to be pretty cool. But the show was a rehash of the worst of the shows all to prove that reality TV isn't really real. Gee. Da ya think?

And I watched an episode of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I really thought I'd be more offended than I was. The whole idea makes me cringe. But it was kinda sweet. Sort of. I mean the idea that a haircut and some new furniture will bring out your "best" you is not one I want to support. But it is cool to see things get all cleaned up in a person's apartment and go from looking unthought about to looking very intentioned. And even when I watch make overs on Oprah I'm torn between hating the mentality that wants everyone to focus on appearance and feeling my eyes fill with tears when people who look kind of average come out with a bounce to their step because they know they look good. There's a balance point on which everything pivots. I see info-mercials for creams to make your flaws go away and I think ... flaws? Huh?

And the other thing about Queer eye is the way it reaffirms stereotypes about gay (and straight) men. Which is why I wasn't going to watch it. But I was still feeling so punky and I just zoned in front of the TV. The show about the reality TV asks an interesting question. Since most of us know the reality in these shows is not that real, why do so many of us watch? Maybe it's because it all seems unreal.

I want the real real.

I am feeling better. I slept well. I still don't feel like eating. I'm not quite as achy.

                                     9:16 AM

September 10 2003 I might have to move to Santa Cruz.

As we get closer to the second anniversary of the September 11 tragedy, American news gets dumb and dumber. It's not that I don't think that we should remember and feel all the feelings of loss and rage and confusion. But I wish the media did a better job of helping people to understand why terrorism happens.

The news from Israel brought it all back for me yesterday. I remember that my awareness of that conflict was heightened in the days following 9/11. It wasn't that I had never paid attention or thought about it before. But I just felt a sense of urgency, an awareness of the things that are so wrong. It isn't that there aren't things going on all over the world. And the ways in which my country plays a part in it all pains me. Listening to the news yesterday I felt the tension again.

On Sunday, before I went swimming, I was listening to Larry Bensky talk about another September 11. And the other day I watched part of The House of the Spirits on IFC. I watched it to remember.

But the media doesn't remind us about our history. The media only wants us to lick our own wounds and feel central in the world narrative.

What I remember is the feeling that everything had changed. And yet nothing had changed. It's been going on forever.

So I probably won't move to Santa Cruz. But I hope it's a trend.

                                     10:11 AM

September 11 2003 Aretha Franklin was singing in my dream this morning. That's a good way to start the day. And it's going to be a day that needs a good start.

I remember waking up. Dean was here doing his internship. He had already left for work and I put together my breakfast and flipped on the radio, the way I always do. And then.

It was a blessing that Dean was here. I didn't feel like I could sink into the darkness that I felt. When he was at work I sat there with the TV on, sound off. Radio on. Searching the Internet for news. But when he was here I tried to turn it all off. We went to Green Gulch to see the farm. His presence forced me to stay open.

And two years have passed. It amazes me.

Two years of war.

But also, two years of life. Two years in which I got my MFA and made new friends and some times I woke up dreaming songs. So I am trying to find some balance.

Mark Fiore is good today.

People are raising their voices in Cancun. One man took his own life to make a point that the mainstream media doesn't seem to think is news.

Life in Iraq is far from liberated.

And the Queen of soul sometimes sings to you while you sleep.

                                     7:57 AM

September 12 2003 I spent the morning writing a not particularly interesting post. At a certain point I clicked a little bit too fast and froze my computer. I lost the post in the reboot. And it's just as well. I might try and put it back together later. But for now I'm going to do the laundry.

This week has felt like being in a coma. But I think I'm coming out of it. I think.

                                     10:30 AM

September 13 2003 My disappearing post was about taking the how old is your inner child test that I saw at Laurie's. My inner child is 45.

Uh huh.

Well ask me how much time I've spent playing with my dolls lately. I start the day looking for a job. I have a break down. I take a shower. And then I play for a while.

There are two things that always keep me playing. Designing the houses and telling myself the story of what's happening while I play. Just like when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time playing by myself. Telling myself stories.

There are so many fan sites. It kinda blows my mind. There's a lot of creativity. And if you play SIMS you understand how exciting it is to find little decorative things. Like these little desk sets. Or a cute bathroom set. If you don't play the SIMS you may not feel the thrill.

Heh.

I mean the truth is you download the desk set, put it on the desk, and that's it. It's not like the SIMS can pick up the pen and start writing. But I get a kick out of making these little worlds. So I make a little green house for my hippie girl to study in.

And it keeps me preoccupied.

I'd stopped playing for a while. It was just day after day of eating, sleeping getting clean, trying to work on self improvement and trying to keep your friends. It was too much like life. And then I found the love crystal. (scroll down) You can summon up as many friends as you need. It was amazing what a difference it made in how I felt about playing. There was all this time that I used to spend making and keeping friends that I could now use for gardening. No more four o'clock phone call telling you that your friends are dumping you.

Well. Lot's of four o'clock phone calls eventually. All your new friends will eventually dump you. But by then you have a new job and your garden looks great.

I've been downloading stuff for the kitchen, playing and telling myself the story of how it all works out. It flies in the face of my anti-materialism view of life And then there's the art. I had to have some Frida.

I got the game right after I got my BA and I spent hours playing. Hours. And then I got into grad school and didn't play as much. And now ... I've been playing again. It is true that I have CSPAN while I play. Imagine listening to the Senate debate while you click on your hippie guy and ask him to water his tomato plants. That's my world.

Yesterday I went down to do the laundry but I forgot the soap. So I hauled myself back up the three flights of stairs to get the soap but I decided to take some recycling down while I was at it and I forgot AGAIN! Back up the steps, get the soap, come back down and someone has put a load in. Isn't that rude? My bag of laundry was sitting right there. I came down later and they were doing another load. I guess they only did one at a time so that I could have the other machine. Which might not be rude. But ... I didn't want to do it one load at a time. So I came back up and played with my little friends. In a world where I can make things work out.

I dunno. Maybe my inner child is 45. A friend of mine who has a fifteen year old SIMS playing daughter tells me that her daughter lets her SIMS fight. I would NEVER! I understand that people like to watch the crazy interactions between the SIMS. I just want them to keep their garden watered.

And there's a new game coming out. Right before Christmas. I'm just sayin.

                                     9:24 AM

September 14 2003 Cynthia and I went to lunch coz yesterday was her birthday. A birthday which she shares with Ms. Mint Tea, (Happy Birthday!) who also went out for a lunch with a friend. Lunch with a friend is a great thing.

After lunch we sat in the back yard while I (finally) got the laundry started. It isn't really a yard. It's a city garden. Lots of pots. There is a cement area on one side filled with dirt from which grow bouganvilla and ferns and a jade plant. The land lady did some of it and I think various tenants have added to it over time. There's a picnic table and two benches. It is a nice place to hang out. And it was a cool place to hang out. It's been hot here. Really, really hot.

After Cynthia left I went back upstairs to the apartment and when I came out to get the laundry someone had watered everything. That smell of wet dirt and cement on a hot day was so good. When I went out later, to get the last load of clothes, the breeze that normally keeps SF cool was back.

I was thinking about something Tonio said about not seeing any September 11 stuff on TV. He is wise enough to keep his TV in the closet. I remember the television coverage being somewhat compelling at first. No one could completely understand what was happening. The news faces all looked uncertain. As the day wore on and they got film footage things went back to bad American news. The same image of the plane hitting the building over and over and over. The same image of the building collapse over and over and over. By the end of the day they had theme music. And now those images and that music are pulled back out every year. It's numbing. You stop feeling. It's just another icon. And now the news faces are back to their self-assurance.

Mark linked this article on the falling man and Joerg wrote a challenging post about the image. My feelings while looking at the image were many. The man does have a kind of grace but it is impossible not to feel the clutch of horror when you look at it. Looking at the picture, for me, is a way of holding that individual. It may be a way I comfort myself, but I see him and I want think how beautiful he is. But it isn't a beautiful picture. It's a stark reminder of what really happened that day. So I let all the emotions wash over me. All the feelings that are numbed by the repetitive tape loop, accompanied with poignant music, on the nighty news.

A while ago I read Regarding the Pain of Others. I thought of it while looking at the picture. I'm not sure we need to sink into the swirl of difficult emotion that hits when we see images of war. But I know that sometimes we need to hold the feelings. I wasn't feeling all the flag waving on Thursday. I was feeling the loss. And, in a reaction to what I see on the television I tend to want to politicize the moment.

But looking at the falling man is too real. It moves me past the rhetoric. It brings me into a moment of transition with another human. I feel and feel and feel. My mind struggles to contain.

I live in a world where people worked to make a beautiful space in the back of a building in the city. A space where the smell of water and sun makes me smile. A world where women go to lunch together to celebrate life and changes. And after a week of being numb and checked out I am feeling the blood begin to flow back into my brain and my heart.

                                     9:38 AM

September 15 2003 I had an unexpected and difficult conversation with a friend yesterday. I ended up crying for a while. It's not at all like I'm worried that the relationship is over. But I think it has changed. Maybe.

Somewhere between unconditional love and telling the truth is the place where you need to process.

I used to have more faith in process.

Things happen between people. And I want to believe in talking it through. But after our conversation I just felt the enormous gap between my friend and I. I don't feel like they really get me. And, my sense is that they feel pretty frustrated with me.

Sometimes it's best to leave things alone. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes it feels like I want things from people that they aren't willing or able to give me. There's a quality of presence that I have with my friends. We're with each other. And sometimes the stuff that happens between people messes up that feeling. And sometimes it doesn't.

In this particular moment I'm not sure.

And then it's Monday and time to focus on the week. Time to stare at the want ads and try to figure it all out. Morning used to be my favorite time. I'd read blogs and eat my breakfast. And then I'd start working on writing. Now I start the morning with this dreary ritual. It sucks the will to breathe right outta me. I dunno. Maybe I should do the job search in the afternoon.

I am aware that I have all this need lately. And I am trying to manage it. But things seem to hit me harder. I collapse under very little pressure. And I am someone who used to  handle a lot of pressure.

Maybe it's good. It hardly matters if it's good, or bad. Because it is what it is.

                                     8:53 AM

The prospect of my own death is slippery, something my mind evades. The undeniable presence of fat as part of my corporeal self is literally easier to grasp. I see my body as delicate, vulnerable and expressive, but I needed the guidance of great artists and to participate over many years in movements for social change to even begin to recognize my own textures. I understand why a twentieth century woman would give so much of her time, money and energy to struggling against the fact of her fat. But the odds against success are steep, and the results in terms of length and quality of life are unclear.            - Susan Stinson

September 15 2003 I'm going to be glad when Paul is back. I think I suck at doing  Big Fat Blog. I blogged an article that talks about how stress can cause a hormonal reaction that causes the body to store fat. And it goes on to talk about how people who live in poverty are under stress.

Gee. Da ya think?

The article has the basic fat hating tone that everything you read in the mainstream media does. But it also adds insight to why some people are fat. Having heard way too much about poor kids who are fat because they eat bad food, I found the article interesting.

The problem with every thing they learn about why people are fat is that they want to cure the "problem." It's impossible to imagine that a fat person might not feel like they need a cure. It's so hard to imagine that I might prefer to be in the body I am in and ask for people to see that body with an open mind and heart.

And I'm going to resist the urge to go off about how the media hammers us with images of beauty that are all the same. Although I will note that I had MSNBC on for a while yesterday and I was struck by how all the women seemed to come from the same mold. At least CNN has Candy Crowley. You hardly ever see her but ...

Anyway. The conversation at BFB seems to be about choosing to be fat. I think it's my fault because I mentioned that I suspect that someone is working on a pill to control the hormone response to stress. In other words, we know your life is difficult, being poor and all, and we don't really care about that. But we don't want you to be fat.

I may have said this before. But let me say it again. If they had a pill that would make me thin I would not take it. I have learned too much from my life in this body. I value the experience. It is hard. Sometimes. But. So?

I did not chose to be fat. But I do chose to reject the idea that my body shape suggests something about my character. And I do know that there is diversity within the population of folks who are labeled as fat. We all have a genetic propensity for fat and then other things happen. There is more than one fat body. We all have stories.

About three years ago I took two sessions of Biology for the science requirements for my BA. The teacher talked about how the fight or flight thing causes digestion to stop. And my first thought was about how often I am shouted at from a passing car. I thought about how braced for assault I am as I walk through the world. It made this deep sense to me. The stress of living in a fat hating world may be part of why I'm fat.

Part of me doesn't care about why. But part of me wants the world to understand how complex the fat experience is. I long for real conversations about the issues. Whether or not I would take the magic pill that would make me thin is easy.

No.

Paul actually sent me a few links. I only found one on my own. And it took me an hour and a half of doing searches to find that one. If anyone has something for me to blog, let me know.

                                     8:41 PM

September 16 2003 Darn. I had my going to the polling place outfit picked out and everything. This is either really good news and the whole recall thing will just go away. Or, the Supreme Court will prove (once again) that it will to step in when things aren't going the way the right wants them to go.

I watched Oprah's interview with Arnold. I don't really think he came off that well. But it sure was a ain't-he-wonderful show. No other candidate has that kind of media access. It's such an abuse of power for al three of them. Sitting there acting like we're all just good friends and that's why we're doing this show. They may well be god friends. But that show was an affront to Democracy. It's completely disingenuous for Oprah to act like she isn't showing a political bias. Arnold isn't polling well with women. So lets get Oprah to tell everyone that he brings his wife coffee every morning. Yeah. Now I want to vote for him.

It's just all so gross and offensive.

On Sunday, after the swim, we were eating brunch in a cafe. There were three people at a table with Kucinich T-shirts on. I went over and chatted with them.

George sent me this article, which is a transcript of a Democracy Now conversation about how NOT progressive Dean is. Every time I listen to Dean talk I like him less. Every time I listen to Dennis I like him more.

It would be nice to vote FOR someone.

                                     9:19 AM

September 17 2003 Yesterday I felt a craving to read Jeff Ward. That was the word that came to me. A craving. And when I went to his blog there was this post.

Isn't that funny?

I was walking back from the store and it occurred to me that I feel like I don't have permission to write. When I was in school, writing was what I was supposed to be doing. Now, I need to make money. So I look for a job. But I don't really want a job. I want to write. But I NEED a job. And somehow in the tape looping of all that my brain shuts down. And I don't feel like I can write.

I do realize I'm writing this. But I have this time to write wired. And I'm grateful that I have the blog. But I have another book in my head. And when I sit down to do the work I just go blank.

So, after the epiphany, I came home and read. Because reading often makes me want to write. But I didn't write. I drank some red wine and cleaned the bathroom. Then at 1:00 in the morning I woke up flooded with ideas about how to start the book. I never know what to do. Get up, write it down and be tired the next day. Or hope I remember it. I kinda felt like I would remember this because it was pretty vivid. And I do.

I dunno. Some day I'll look back on this and ... uh ...what?

I found this on Whiskey River. Go play.

                                     8:35 AM

September 18 2003 I had lunch with a friend yesterday. We had a really nice waitress and I was in one of my chatty, effusive moods. We were eating heirloom tomatoes and oysters and shoe string potatoes and really nice Cowgirl creamery cheese. All little plates, so the waitress had to come back to our table a few times. It was a slow time in the restaurant. At one point my friend had to go and put money in the meter and the waitress and I talked about a bunch of stuff. I don't even remember what all we talked about.

Right before we left my friend had to go to the bathroom and the waitress came back and said, "Thanks for talking to me. It's not very often that I have real human contact."

Wow.

I realize there's an acknowledgement of me in that. And I realize that it isn't her job to have contact. It's her job to bring people their food. And I realize it was slow and the space was open for she and I to spend that time together. And, being who I am, we weren't talking about the weather. I've been a waitress. So I get how that could happen. But still. I just can't stop thinking about it.

This is a person who interacts with people all day, everyday and she feels that she rarely has real human contact. There was something so sad about that.

Meanwhile, I drank two double caps and, since I haven't been drinking coffee, I got super buzzed and was wide awake for hours and hours and hours. I felt slightly psychedelic.

                                     8:08 AM

September 18 2003 OHFERFUCKSAKE.

I got home and got all wound up (in a good way) about the conversation in my comments and that Kell carried over to her blog. I wrote a really long and very cool response. Oh. I'm tellin ya. It was good. And then I clicked on something