saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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It's Memorial Day. A time of rejoicing. Oh, wait...
Sitting at my desk, two computers going at once. Writing here and then writing there. Stacks of books around me. Coffee. My hair still wet from my shower and I�m wearing my most comfortable pajama bottoms. My daughter�s excited voice every once in a while piping in from the living room, giving me an update on her video game or book. Looking out my picture windows into my yard as I stop to think, watching and listening to the scores of birds that live nearby. My cat slinks back and forth in front of the window, occasionally hitting her head on the glass in her enthusiasm to get a mouthful of the tempting feathered morsels outside.
These are things that should make me happy. Or inspire me. Instead, they are distracting. They don�t have to be. I don�t even think that they are meant to be. But me? I�m the High Priestess of Procrastination. When I say that I can easily become preoccupied with just a glimpse of a shiny object, I am really. Really. Really not kidding.
But I am working. This is an amazing thing � if you know me, you realize exactly how amazing it is. Two short stories�and a whole lot of staring blankly at the third chapter of my book. It is the same chapter I was working on when I became disenchanted over a year ago. But there is something about the way my cat so carefully stalks the birds she will never get, hitting her head and then starting all over again, that now makes me sit determinedly in front of this book, grimly pulling out the words, one by one. It�s either tenacity or abject stupidity. Either way, it�s going to get done.
I took a short break to freshen up my cup of coffee and sit with Taylor to read some of �A Light in the Attic.� She giggles at the silly imagery and explains the puns to me with delight. I remember reading that very same copy of the book of poems when I was not much older than she is. My favorite poems then are still my favorites now. It�s oddly like sitting next to my younger self, telling her what I already know but she doesn�t. And shouldn�t. Because she�s not, even though some part of me keeps telling me that she must be.
It�s all quite perplexing that way. See?
I�m having these sorts of otherme reactions to situations and people lately. I was just listening to �Filigree and Shadow� by This Mortal Coil as I showered. It�s so very mellow that even the way the water fell from the showerhead and rolled over my skin felt too frenetic in comparison. Almost anxious. And the song �Meniscus� seemed suddenly very familiar. Not in the way it actually sounded, exactly, but in the way it resounded inside my chest, a smaller, lighter me floating like a mylar balloon between my ribs. This is the young me. The pure me. The romantic. The hopefully hopeless me that might sit forlornly next to a window and hope that someone would walk by and wonder why I look so sad. Yes, ladies and gentlemen: the very, very simple me.
She would have never been caught on chapter three. Words spilled from her without an ounce of shame or second thought.
So the question remains:
Which eighties teen movie insult is better: �neo maxi zoom dweebie� or �spazticated nerdfag�?
(I couldn�t stay on the previous thread any more. Something shiny distracted me.)
(Oh, yeah. And read this. Right now. I laughed so hard that I ended up with my head between my knees, gagging and staring at a yellowish spot on the carpet under my desk, wondering if somehow the hamster had gotten under there and relieved herself. If that doesn't say "delightfully amusing," I know know what does.)
11:45 a.m. - 2002-05-27
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