It's time to up and die--set sail

Moments ago, I literally rubbed salt in a wound in the process of scrubbing a cutting board. Ergh.

Today, I sat out and wrote in my little cliche leather journal. The buckeye butterflies just hatched, and they were almost covering the biggest tree in the yard. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been lying on my back. But stupid journal--I use it to write in aimlessly, which happens less and less often these days, so it's a good place to find little shitty things I'd forgotten about writing years ago, snips of this or that. (On the first page: the npc sign up list from Erin.)  Today, I found the following page, written in my self-shorthand. I have forgotten 100% of the context, but judging on the previous entries, I think it was sometime last summer.

Questions:
How often?
Recognition.
What did you think on the mountain?


I was so epic productive today. In nonproductive parts, I wrote some of a bullshit poem. In future productive parts, I go to bed early.

day after day I become of less use to myself

I have all these things I want to write about right now. Here's a list:

• Would my life have turned out differently if I'd watched Titanic as a preteen? In which ways? Discuss.
• My Mentor Southern Writer Casey Clabough and Why It's Been Impossible for Me to Write an Actual Essay about His Work and the Effect it has had on Me and My Life
• A time recently I encountered a magic cat that saved me from a ghost
• Thoughts had on Travis's Porch
• Things I want to do before summer is over
• I just checked out all four of my favorite Charles Wright books from the library. I had to actively resist rubbing them on my dragon stomach possessively and then placing them carefully among my hoard, never to be returned to the other unsuspecting fools in my town. What obnoxious posts will I make about this? What poems as posts to describe my moody little days?What vague but carefully over-wrought post titles? Golly, golly. Can you even stand it?

But I'm still goddamn sick, and I've given my word to behave myself and go to bed at a reasonable hour Therefore, I present to you a photopost of a bunch of out of context shots from the last week or so. With promises of all kinds of written feelings to come.

Keyhole.

Lost in the woods.

Hike face.

All ye who enter, none shall leave alive.

Into Moria.

Out the other way. 

Spicebrush swallowtail missing three legs. Stop staring at my rage lines.

I bought this nail polish exclusively because it reminded me of salamander bellies. My fingers look horrible and red, but I was just wearing a bright shirt.

Clear Night, by Charles Wright

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.

Moon-fingers lay down their same routine

On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.

Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.

I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.

I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.   

I want to be entered and picked clean.

And the wind says “What?” to me.

And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.

And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.   

And the gears notch and the engines wheel.

Charles Wright, “Clear Night” from Country Music: Select

there was poison out

I'm listening to sad music, like an idiot, after the worst day in recent memory. The thing that keeps sticking in my throat is this feeling of anger. Inequity. I know it always comes back to that--that's what hooks on me.

I had a productive night, otherwise. More cleaning, more sorting, I need a new backdoor rug. I swept. I staked. I weeded. I moved the garish deer skull around my garden. The mosquitos bit me through my clothes. So it goes.

I don't care for the current stars or cards or my mood. Impossibly childish and hurtful. I just want to go someplace wild and do some hiking. "Suck my dick," I want to say to everything. Except not really. I want to burst into tears. Remember how I used to be funny?

I think I need to be calm for the next three weeks. I need to remember to be patient with myself and pay attention and run so I don't go crazy like I'm doing tonight. I know I'm not that interesting. I need to write my goddamn writing assignments and think about the rest of my life after this job I have now.

Do you know what I miss about Iceland? The fucking breakfast. I don't even eat breakfast now. But in Iceland, it was the only thing that wasn't terribly expensive, and in Reykjavik everything was so far away, each day was physically exhausting--5-10 miles of walking at least, just on a light day. An icelandic breakfast is like 5 different types of black bread with various fish or dried meat, or weird butters on it, this thick plain yogurt, a bunch of fruit, cheese, eggs, fish oil that you would take like a shot. It kinda sounds gross now, actually, but it was so good then, all desperate for carbs and protein, as far into my fond ancestral north as I've ever been. I'm not a very good at being norse for how much Scandinavian blood I have in my veins. I like the warm months and even now I can feel a little unsettledness as the days get shorter. At the other side, also, I feel a little feral. So, there's that.

Nope, let's get you to bed.

I just had to say this somewhere

This week, I had a dream set in the Victorian era, in the parlors of London. In it, I spitefully murdered the actor Hugh Laurie's favorite male prostitute over a dispute about opium trafficking in which I perceived that he (the actor Hugh Laurie) had cheated me out of certain money I was owed for the dope. I was exactly my modern self in the dream, but dark-haired, and prone to hissing, "You don't know who you're dealing with!" 

So: exactly like my normal self but with dark hair.

Cool Wednesday Thoughts or Since I Haven't Updated Much

My dad used to be very good at running--Olympic-time good, in high school. I always remember hearing about how once had food poisoning and threw up all over the track in front of everyone, but then raced anyway, and broke the school record. He opted for football instead of track when he went to college because there were full scholarships for that, but he still ran in training. My mom said that was the first time she noticed him: he was running the track above her lab. She said he looked so effortless running that he almost looked bored, that his feet didn't even seem to touch the ground at all.

I think about this sometimes when I run. I don't float, not even close, but every now and then I feel like I'm breaking into a place where I could. This is possibly over-optimistic.

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I am wearing my Star Wars t-shirt like a cool girl.

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It's starting to rain outside. I can tell even though I can't see it actually falling. It's making a very soft sound as it hits the honeysuckle leaves outside my kitchen window.

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I love to cook. I get so much genuine satisfaction out of it. Different spices and herbs make me happy, and I like to understand the nuances of them, grow them, read cooking magazine and books about different uses, experiment. I enjoy trying new dishes, improving old ones. Grocery lists excite me. I especially enjoy picking out, planning, and executing well-paired meals--the right wine with the right meat with the right vegetable. The more I can sync, the more satisfaction. And I like the rituals. I like to eat by candlelight, or outside in a nice space. I think too much about matching plate sets for somebody under 40.

That said, when I'm alone, I shamelessly eat cold refried beans and tomatoes out of a Tupperware. In the dark. (That sounds a bit sadder than I mean it.)

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I got a canary melon and soon I am going to butcher that. I also got a watermelon. I'm big into melon right now, I guess.