Not-So-Funny-Feeling

Not-So-Funny-Feeling

I win nothing. I get no mail. The library computer won’t open my document. After a 75º + day, it hails. Now it rains. I don’t think I ought to risk any more money.

The grocery stores may go out on strike. If they strike on the 1^st I have to buy plants & salad greens (for Dad’s inhumation party). I don’t want to have to think ahead.

I get no phone calls too.

The Latin tutor is teaching a 9 year old. He’s better than the high school kid who was here yesterday. Enthused. I pass on my specimen sentence: Monstra mihi pecuniam.

She appreciates.

It’s early. Hilda’s here already all bent over. Yesterday I talked to Marcus who tells me all about how much better Linda is (though I hardly know Linda & don’t much care.)

A high school girl sits on a high stool studying & her low-rise jeans leave her crack visible. The new cleavage. Tch tch.

15^th Ave «B’x 4/27?/04

Little of This

After a windstorm blew through yesterday snowing leaves & samaras & those paper hearts that have flowered on the maple (?) trees all over & even downing a few limbs & branches, today is warm & sunny again.

The pug-nosed woman who ignores me sits just outside the window in a SAM sweatshirt & a hankie tied around….I think it’s a wig, her blonde hair. It’s all the same color & doesn’t seem to have a part. but…it’s not coifed, rather shapeless in fact, so maybe it’s really her hair. I don’t know. But what’s that weird little wet looking tail at the back. Oh how I hate her & how I enjoy hating her.

Yes, she probably is just like me in some of my less appealing aspects—like Beth from Probation. (I liked Beth tho, just not enough to hang around with her for more than 5 minutes.)

And so—

Nothing continues to happen

I become intensely Yes/No about what I’m working on (“Dave”). I wonder if I’ll ever write anything new. Fresh. Perhaps something funny about the 70’s.

Otherwise I keep pedaling the same old round. Yes, like a circus bear on a tricycle.

Hateful apartment, enjoyable books. Blurry vision. Boredom. Disgust. Mild (very mild) euphoria. Good sleep--& even a dream about Joni Mitchell. (She had short hair too.)

What I want is a good thing. Money & recognition. Reinforcement.

Otherwise…well, what’s it all for anyway?

15^th Ave «B’s 4/26/04

Auntie Ev

And analyzing my boredom.

I suppose it is boredom that tends to make me look to my dreams for messages. From beyond? Well, from somewhere.

This morning I dreamed we (me & Mom?) went to Auntie Ev’s—Grandma B’s, I think, complete w/ stuff all over—& I looked in & Ev’s head was gone. She was lying in bed obviously dead—well, I mean headless…. but we crept further in & I saw that it was just her head was turned at an angle (oh, an illusion). And she was alive, though very old of course, & she got up & was so skinny I could see all her vertebrae. And then there was something about the guy…delivery guy, what was his story…who had come to stay and…it was going to get complicated (it always does)…and I woke up & it was quarter to 5 & the birds were chirping already & I was too warm. Took me a long time to get back to sleep, wondering if Aunt Ev had died.. Also I dreamed #’s like 10, 14, 16. But I didn’t quite believe it.

Have heard nothing about anyone dying. It’s very warm this afternoon. I still owe the dentist $95, which makes me mad, it was for nothing. I’m bored & broke & want some distraction—pleasant, please. I have Part II of Mat all but (badly) finished. Just have to distill the 10 p. of Dave’s insomnia down to maybe 4 or 5.

Café Ladro 4/30/04

Something Different That’s Also the Same

I take a long walk on a beautiful warm May Day, stewing in my dissatisfaction, arrive at the Starbuck’s on 15^th at 5:30 to find it empty & baking w/ sun. Empty, that is, save for Hilda sitting in her usual chair. And oh, I made an ugly face before walking down the hill to the Boston Market/Olive Way store. To find, besides Pablo, Chanticleer (turns out his actual name is Brett) from the Broadway store. So we sputter with foolish talk & I sit down, almost resigned to my miserable existence. See, I just need some distraction. I have to get Dave off my lap/hands/sofa/mind too. No matter how long ago Julia left. Year & a half. Long enough.

*

Oh, we laugh about bathrooms, talk about writing—then some big fat bozo starts yapping—to no one that I can see; the woman right next to him is also yapping while turned the other way. He’s got the ear-wire. Must be a cell-phoney.

And sorrowful looking Asian girls are lined up by the bathroom door—blocked by the bus cart.

I feel better. I feel like gambling. I must go buy lettuce for tomorrow.

O.W. «Bucks 5/1/04

Drop a Tear for Dad?

Never know when one will overtake you…I didn’t mind when they (we) put his ashes in the ground on Saturday, but today was his birthday & I thought about how he was last year, just out of his coma & “celebrating” with a cupcake courtesy of his nurses.

Last night I dreamed I was at a house where a funeral was being held for Brian Irwin. All these high school people—all the usual & a few more (did Sue McMeechan know Brian?) (was it Brian or Jim Langseth?). And Cousin Donna was steering me around. I knew I should call Sonja because she’d want to be there & I was sure she’d be back from Walla Walla.

But I haven’t heard from her. Haven’t heard from anybody, and I don’t get any mail: oh, damn email. Where’s that earthquake?

I think I dreamed old Parkland + funerals (my brain is a Search Engine) because I read the guest book for Jim Birch & reflect what a different place Parkland was for those hell-raising prole boys than for us “good Lutheran girls.” Said Jim had been in rehab. How many of those guys are Viet Nam vets, and what was/is their Drug problem.

I cut it loose.

15^th Ave «B’s 5/4/05