I find it hard to write sometimes.
Most times, I guess.
I spend most days at some point along a circle: 4:30 a.m., wake up, take medicine, doze on the couch, eyes open at about ten after five, breakfast, shower, hair, dress, kiss Quinn goodbye, go to work, work, lunch, home, dinner, read, sleep, 4:30 a.m.
When things fall into place:
A safe, liberating, and joyous National Coming Out Day for to all new members of the GLBT community! Enjoy this quirky little anecdote about Coming Out Day from my friend Ms. Pants (and a few more interesting anecdotes in her comments).
When I walk past the den, Quinn is lipsynching to a song, closing his eyes and acting like a rock star. The female singer’s intensity puts Quinn’s living room rocker act to shame. When he notices that I am watching him, he suddenly gets tired. He stops, sighs, and says, “Ah, my daydream wife.”
The real singer, he means. I’d only heard a few seconds of the song. “Who’re you listening to, again?” I ask.
I am living with a man who harbors fantasies about riot grrrls. It could not get any better unless I became a lesbian. (more…)
This is the story of how one bloodline branches into a hundred different rivers.
There are nights like this one when I drink too much wine and I wonder what I will end up doing with my life.
There are options that are obvious to other people, options that are not so obvious to me.
An old internet buddy who goes by the name of Redsaid wrote that if she were me–and she is not me–she would be making billions of dollars off of her prose. I find this very flattering and very unrealistic. She is living in South Africa, a white, red-haired girl who speaks several languages and does not see race, and I think, “If I were you, I would really be living.”
It would make sense to make my living from writing, if only I knew how.
I would be a decent academic if I threw myself into it, much like I would be a decent podiatrist, physicist, or agricultural economist if I threw myself into those fields. I am a smart woman, a very smart woman, and I can write, and write well. The thought of living somewhere I hate in order to get a job, and the thought of being detached from my work (and working just to continue working) makes academia feel like a mountain of bile in my throat.
I am twenty-seven and I am directionless, and it’s always after midnight when I think about that. Tonight, I will have trouble sleeping yet again.
I am driving down Blood Road–that is its name, but in another language, of course. And of course the locals mispronounce it, because it’s exotic, because no one around here speaks that language, not even the immigrants, who are in fact not immigrants but Americans who are not white.
In any case.
I am driving down Blood Road, and the farther I drove, the further the road exemplified its name: asphalt to gravel to red-red dirt, a dirt scarred with tire tracks from someone there long before I ever dreamt of living here.
At exactly 11:22 AM, I drove away. I started to drive away before that, but my dashboard gently reminded me that a door–one of the five on my car–was open. At 11:22, though, everything was packed up tight, the doors were closed, the gas tank was full, and I was driving toward the freeway.
My brother had turned my car into a life-sized jigsaw puzzle. A disassembled chair filled the holes between boxes, and my tool bag was wedged between a nightstand and a mannequin. My passenger was a vacuum cleaner-and-suitcase chimera, and my purse sat all prim and proper and Southern-belle-like on the edge of my gear shift. I had enough room for a drink and several granola bars and me. We were legos with kinetic energy.
Lock, stock, and smoking drill bit.
I have helped Quinn move. I spent almost 2 weeks with him in the great state of Oklahoma, and then I had a wonderful air travel experience back home. I am spending the next week packing up my belongings, preparing to move myself to the great state of Oklahoma.
I will write a proper blog entry when life itself becomes proper again. That’s a joke–proper? Life? Ha! I will write a proper blog entry when life becomes a little less hectic, and when I no longer live in a corrugated cardboard Hooverville.