Woke up to the sound of a firecracker being shot off in the alley, and a wicked dehydration headache. The heatwave has been back, and I'd forgotten to open my window earlier in the day, so the room (and house) were sweltering. Can't remember what I was dreaming about, but I thought of the "Great Gatsby" (because I finished it on Monday-one of the faster reads, he was a good writer, and it's short) and when I awoke I wondered why, on the day that everything happened, Gatsby says to Nick, about Daisy, that her voice is the sound of money? There is disdain, but he still somehow wants her, or what she represents, even though by the time he says it, his dreams of a life with her are already slipping away to nothing. (Though, I suppose it's the clinging of the desperate to an obsession his whole life had been built in service to.)
Was up writing in the middle of the night. Couldn't sleep. Seismic shifts in my head from a conversation, one line of it really. And you can't change the outcome of something that happened almost three decades ago. But I regret my own lack of self-love or self-worth that caused my own blindness at the time. But there were still things none of us said to each other, things we didn't know about each other, and who knows at the time, what will matter in the end? (And the sudden joy of remembering that someone made his life hard at the time, the joy now not because I wanted him to suffer, but more because she (because anyone) cared enough about me to defend me. That someone thought I was worth defending. And the core group of friends during those two years...I would choose them all again.)
I remember the last time I saw each of two friends from that era, right before I moved to finish college. One instance I've thought about a lot over the years, the other, I'd somehow forgotten. A close friend had come into where I was working (I was waiting tables) and asked me a favor, which I said I'd do, but I never saw him again, because we somehow lost touch. I remember having the impression that he had shrunk, that all the air of his life had been sucked out. I tried to hug him, but he pulled away. The other set of eyes disapproving, which I get, a new phase of life and all...to you, I hope you got yourself back.
To me, I've lived my life way too cautiously, worrying about the wrong things.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Books, books, and more books
Hate to say it, but I'm getting somewhat burned out on reading. (Well, in particular, reading to fulfill a category. I've completed 16 books, though one of those was about trauma, so doesn't count, and have started ten others, not sure if I'll finish them all or not.) The deadline is Sept 5, maybe I'll just fill out the card in an interesting pattern. I'm not super excited about any of the books I'm currently reading, and they are long (but I want to complete the challenge, to not have something hanging over me, undone) Plus, it's the end of summer, and the smoke has cleared, and the days are getting shorter, and minus this boot (which I'm still wearing), I'd like to get out and enjoy it more. It's starting to feel like school, a self-imposed one.
Some photos from the past couple of months.
Some photos from the past couple of months.
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| Lights to lead you home, August 6/L Herlevi 2017 |
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| Soft, July 6/L Herlevi 2017 |
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| Shroud, August 17/L Herlevi 2017 |
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| Big, sunflower face, August 17/L Herlevi 2017 |
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| Field, August 17/L Herlevi 2017 |
Monday, August 14, 2017
In flux
It's odd how it suddenly feels like autumn: the cooler breeze, people wearing jackets, leaves falling, the earlier dusks. I feel optimistic with the approaching autumn, it's from being a kid, that this year, things will be different. Nothing is settled yet. That this year, I can reinvent myself.
One side of our kitchen blew a fuse (unclear why) yesterday. The side that included the fridge. I only noticed because the time was off on the microwave. It got fixed at some point today, I had moved most perishable food to the other fridge, but there is a lot to dump. It needed to be cleaned anyway, but I'm not in the mood to do it tonight. I dumped a few jars I was willing to open, but I think I'll stop, and read. Not sure why I'm letting all the responsibility fall on me, ditto for cleaning the house, but they can all hold out longer than I can. I'm trying to not let all these things be an excuse to not take care of myself (had a thing at work today, too, scheduled at the same time as my foot appointment. I didn't change either, and it went fine without my being around, which is good.) This is unfamiliar territory for me, but healthy to try.
(I'll probably still be the one to clean the fridge, but just on my own time. And it'd be nice to clear out old, scary stuff, rather than avoid it out of guilt, for wasting.)
Have to talk to a surgeon regarding my foot, probably won't do it (the surgery), but it would help. They'll give me a shot when I next go in. I just have a lot of stairs in my life, so that would need to change first.
Finally decided to respond to a friend from my past who has been throwing out hooks for years (not often, but they've been thrown.) I never really thought he meant it; that it was just something you say, in passing. And perhaps it is. And perhaps it was rude for me to brush him off. I had a good reason, though (he was married, we used to date when we were in college, meeting felt weird), it wasn't personal. I do like him, any lingering, whatever, is long gone. Maybe there's something good in knowing each other again.
One side of our kitchen blew a fuse (unclear why) yesterday. The side that included the fridge. I only noticed because the time was off on the microwave. It got fixed at some point today, I had moved most perishable food to the other fridge, but there is a lot to dump. It needed to be cleaned anyway, but I'm not in the mood to do it tonight. I dumped a few jars I was willing to open, but I think I'll stop, and read. Not sure why I'm letting all the responsibility fall on me, ditto for cleaning the house, but they can all hold out longer than I can. I'm trying to not let all these things be an excuse to not take care of myself (had a thing at work today, too, scheduled at the same time as my foot appointment. I didn't change either, and it went fine without my being around, which is good.) This is unfamiliar territory for me, but healthy to try.
(I'll probably still be the one to clean the fridge, but just on my own time. And it'd be nice to clear out old, scary stuff, rather than avoid it out of guilt, for wasting.)
Have to talk to a surgeon regarding my foot, probably won't do it (the surgery), but it would help. They'll give me a shot when I next go in. I just have a lot of stairs in my life, so that would need to change first.
Finally decided to respond to a friend from my past who has been throwing out hooks for years (not often, but they've been thrown.) I never really thought he meant it; that it was just something you say, in passing. And perhaps it is. And perhaps it was rude for me to brush him off. I had a good reason, though (he was married, we used to date when we were in college, meeting felt weird), it wasn't personal. I do like him, any lingering, whatever, is long gone. Maybe there's something good in knowing each other again.
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Sunday
The rain didn't amount to much, though the change in the atmosphere after so many days of hot, sunny, smoky, broke me from inertia.
I woke early, wind blowing through the windows. Finished the Brian Wilson book, then got dressed and walked over to the library to drop it off. Detoured through the park, it was quiet, not many birds around. As I walked back out toward the road, I heard something fall from a tree: an apple with a bite out of it bounced against the front of a parked car. I went over to take a closer look: it fell from a tulip tree. I suppose some animal had stashed it up there for safe keeping, though it seemed like a large apple for a squirrel to manage.
I stopped by a coffee shop, every one was cleaning. I had to ask to make sure it was open, I was assured it was. I was the only person purchasing anything, a man sat reading a paper behind a merchandise display. It's almost always packed.
I came home to make breakfast, got side-tracked with another book, "Night Train to Lisbon" by Pascal Mercier, and then reminded myself I needed food in my stomach for the Prednisone. After I ate, I started cleaning the house, and after three hours am taking a break. I think the bath mat shrunk, and someone pissed on the floor again, after I wiped it up. It's a losing battle.
Seems like time to let things change.
I woke early, wind blowing through the windows. Finished the Brian Wilson book, then got dressed and walked over to the library to drop it off. Detoured through the park, it was quiet, not many birds around. As I walked back out toward the road, I heard something fall from a tree: an apple with a bite out of it bounced against the front of a parked car. I went over to take a closer look: it fell from a tulip tree. I suppose some animal had stashed it up there for safe keeping, though it seemed like a large apple for a squirrel to manage.
I stopped by a coffee shop, every one was cleaning. I had to ask to make sure it was open, I was assured it was. I was the only person purchasing anything, a man sat reading a paper behind a merchandise display. It's almost always packed.
I came home to make breakfast, got side-tracked with another book, "Night Train to Lisbon" by Pascal Mercier, and then reminded myself I needed food in my stomach for the Prednisone. After I ate, I started cleaning the house, and after three hours am taking a break. I think the bath mat shrunk, and someone pissed on the floor again, after I wiped it up. It's a losing battle.
Seems like time to let things change.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Quiet here
Sitting in a coffee shop, eating popcorn for dinner, trying to finish up Brian Wilson's memoir: "i am Brian Wilson" tonight. This is only book 13 since end of June (I'm trying for 24 by September 5, not sure if that will happen, but it's already more books than I've read in the past few years combined, though I've read a lot of plays), I'm in the middle of five others, I'm hoping the combination of the lot will add up to something new in my head, though I now can't remember exactly what the first one I read was about, though it reminded me of "The Truman Show" ("Time out of Joint" by Philip K. Dick.)
Just before 10, I walk out and head home. The evening is mostly silent, someone talks on a cell phone in a car; a man runs down the sidewalk; but no sound of traffic. A breeze has kicked up, the smoke has cleared out: it's starting to rain.
Just before 10, I walk out and head home. The evening is mostly silent, someone talks on a cell phone in a car; a man runs down the sidewalk; but no sound of traffic. A breeze has kicked up, the smoke has cleared out: it's starting to rain.
Wednesday, August 2, 2017
Fires
The air last night was acrid. Acrid and hot. Stopped by a grocery store to pick up something for a block party, put some ice and water in a small cup and walked outside. By the time I'd gotten to the end of the block, the ice had melted.
This morning there was some haze, but air seemed cleaner than last evening. By midday the smoke had sunk in down to ground level, on a wind blowing south from British Columbia: forest fires in Central B.C. I saw a map earlier that showed the entire Washington state, minus the higher parts of the Cascades, covered in smoke. Air quality is listed as "moderate to unhealthy." You can see it hang in the air when you look outside, making the air look thick. My nose burned when I stepped outside.
Everything a tinder box. It rained a little bit at my house last Thursday morning, but it's been dry, 45 days without measurable rain.
The sun was unctuous and luscious as it set: first a rich gold, then deep shades of orange, then a duller red, then pink then fading into gray as it dropped below the facing hill; the accompanying trail on the water a golden river, to a red streak like a carpet rolled out, to a broken, faint pink line, then: nothing. No sunset in the rest of the sky, just the smokey haze to dull into darkness.
It never got as hot as predicted, but it's still 81 outside now, and probably closer to 100 inside; no relief tonight.
This morning there was some haze, but air seemed cleaner than last evening. By midday the smoke had sunk in down to ground level, on a wind blowing south from British Columbia: forest fires in Central B.C. I saw a map earlier that showed the entire Washington state, minus the higher parts of the Cascades, covered in smoke. Air quality is listed as "moderate to unhealthy." You can see it hang in the air when you look outside, making the air look thick. My nose burned when I stepped outside.
Everything a tinder box. It rained a little bit at my house last Thursday morning, but it's been dry, 45 days without measurable rain.
The sun was unctuous and luscious as it set: first a rich gold, then deep shades of orange, then a duller red, then pink then fading into gray as it dropped below the facing hill; the accompanying trail on the water a golden river, to a red streak like a carpet rolled out, to a broken, faint pink line, then: nothing. No sunset in the rest of the sky, just the smokey haze to dull into darkness.
It never got as hot as predicted, but it's still 81 outside now, and probably closer to 100 inside; no relief tonight.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Tuesday
The man across the way has violent sneezing fits every night. I only ever hear it in the summer, when it's hot, as both our windows are open. Last night it cooled down enough to grab a blanket, but we're at the start of a heat wave. Thankfully, work stays at a comfortable temperature, the attic will be unbearable by mid-week.
Have to keep the boot on for two more weeks, so, grateful for the dry weather. Both feet swelled up last night, iced them for almost an hour. Not sure why the pain, still there in the morning, and I laid in bed after waking up, contemplating the act of standing, and walking down a flight of stairs...was consequently late for work. Broke down and started the prednisone I was supposed to start last week. (I don't like to take it, but it works.)
The air was dry grass, then jasmine. Sprays of water from the early sprinklers drifted softly back down to the ground.
Had to return most of my books last night, checked out new ones, but don't like two of them, so might return them rather than suffer through. Finished all the others, minus the owl book, it had a hold, so couldn't keep it. Interested in the ideas of the stories we tell ourselves, the ones we believe that form our existence. Have a lot of ideas I've been wrestling with from reading "Brave New World." Ideas especially around the Savage, societal expectations, and Shakespeare as oracle. Went to a volunteer after party for the Seafood Fest and had a long conversation about the latter idea (not just Shakespeare, but literature, or writings that are re-discovered, and then used without any idea of context to inform your world and how you respond to things) with a man whom I sat across from, because there was an empty seat.
Saw "Fool for Love" on Saturday night, and then Monday heard that Sam Shepard had died. (RIP.) Seeing it on stage changed my thoughts of what it was about. The director, in his notes, made a comment about gas-lighting to control the narrative, and yeah, I see that now, but when I first read it, at 21, I saw it as "fated" love or something (in a twisted way), and then after working on a monologue last fall, saw it as an abusive relationship, and perhaps not just a game to see who can hurt the other the most, but maybe she really does want to be away from him. And then seeing it on stage on Saturday night, it became about the Old Man, and how all that happens is the repercussion of his fantasy life, his inability to own up to anything. I'm still trying to write something about it.
At any rate, it's the stories we tell, that take on a life of their own. How we may never know what any truth is, how different people in the same event and circumstance define the truth of what occurred differently, and how that shapes who we become and how we determine future events.
Have to keep the boot on for two more weeks, so, grateful for the dry weather. Both feet swelled up last night, iced them for almost an hour. Not sure why the pain, still there in the morning, and I laid in bed after waking up, contemplating the act of standing, and walking down a flight of stairs...was consequently late for work. Broke down and started the prednisone I was supposed to start last week. (I don't like to take it, but it works.)
The air was dry grass, then jasmine. Sprays of water from the early sprinklers drifted softly back down to the ground.
Had to return most of my books last night, checked out new ones, but don't like two of them, so might return them rather than suffer through. Finished all the others, minus the owl book, it had a hold, so couldn't keep it. Interested in the ideas of the stories we tell ourselves, the ones we believe that form our existence. Have a lot of ideas I've been wrestling with from reading "Brave New World." Ideas especially around the Savage, societal expectations, and Shakespeare as oracle. Went to a volunteer after party for the Seafood Fest and had a long conversation about the latter idea (not just Shakespeare, but literature, or writings that are re-discovered, and then used without any idea of context to inform your world and how you respond to things) with a man whom I sat across from, because there was an empty seat.
Saw "Fool for Love" on Saturday night, and then Monday heard that Sam Shepard had died. (RIP.) Seeing it on stage changed my thoughts of what it was about. The director, in his notes, made a comment about gas-lighting to control the narrative, and yeah, I see that now, but when I first read it, at 21, I saw it as "fated" love or something (in a twisted way), and then after working on a monologue last fall, saw it as an abusive relationship, and perhaps not just a game to see who can hurt the other the most, but maybe she really does want to be away from him. And then seeing it on stage on Saturday night, it became about the Old Man, and how all that happens is the repercussion of his fantasy life, his inability to own up to anything. I'm still trying to write something about it.
At any rate, it's the stories we tell, that take on a life of their own. How we may never know what any truth is, how different people in the same event and circumstance define the truth of what occurred differently, and how that shapes who we become and how we determine future events.
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