I Know the Difference
I Know the Difference
Between many indistinguishable things. Fine versus define: all words. In the real world, I can usually tell foolishness from true foolishness—for all the good that it does me.
Today: warm with hot flashes. I see many stick-skinny young girls in little skimpy dresses. (Maybe that's the look Jana's going for?) The storky legs do not appeal (to me) but I have to admit those girls look cool. Maybe if I got skinny, I'd look cool. Pfah! I've tried that. Nothing ever gets as thin as my face & neck. (I suppose I am my Grandma's E’s girl, in this respect.)
I won nothing, I sold nothing. I have no job. I have $29. I continue to oscillate. Or vacillate. (I don't know the difference, but I'll go home & find out.)
None of my options appeals to me. I'm already thinking—well, would I rather have to talk to Mom about this, or would I rather die? Easy answer, under the circumstances, but I don't think dying is necessarily that easy. Not as easy as falling off the bike...I don't think I could do something that elegant on purpose.
Wonderful warm weather & rain clouds out there over the water. How I crave—flight.
BM *Bux 7/20/01
Image #2 (or 3)
Paper crumbs – confetti, cool, dark summer afternoon & a sign. Well, I took it as a sign.
I was walking along 11th Avenue minding my own negative thoughts, when I heard a cry. I looked down & there beneath a bush was— a 'Mas cat. A big fat lovable ‘Mas cat with doo on his butt. I didn't pick him up, well, I wouldn't, but I petted him good & thorough. And I thought, oh, that's nice & I didn't expect it.
But then I didn't find money & I've got $12 plus my bureau savings—about another $12. A fifth of cheap vodka costs $7.85. I don't think a pint would render me well & truly unconscious. I'd still like to die outside. And I'd still like to live 20 or 30 years with cats & a house by the sea & 5 discerning fans. And some funny friends. Here's the short list of good people I've met here: Lee. Mitsu. David W. – & the rest of the library gang (Angela, Kate, John & Steve).
But the City—oh, Anne W. Well, there. Liz C. from before.
All right, then whose fault is that? Yes, mine for having standards. Lower them? No.
Image: iris, tulip, frog, dollar bill.
Bumble bee.
Fat blonde smoking a cigarette.
A plane, a train, a boat, a bus.
My two big feet.
Nice flamenco pouring down from Starbucks' ceiling. And castanets. When I was a girl, I wanted to play the castanets. I still do.
BM*Bux 7/21/01
Too Hot – no problem
At the end of the path, the heat matters only as much as the mosquitoes, yes annoying but what happened to the trail? Ooh, remember "To Build a Fire"? That may have been the best/worst thing we ever read in school. Right, a boys' stories. Maybe I should have...well, I tried with the Bear (or what? Yeti?) story. Path or patho.
I talked to Mom & it was okay. She said the fact that I hadn't worked was worrisome. I didn't ask for anything. (It's not worrisome, it's fatal.)
I'm not hurrying, though I am finding with anxiety I get more hot flashes. I have $8 plus bureau cash—& all I need is a scratch ticket. Tuesday I'll give up. Hope. Eternal spring. Fatal. Fate.
Luck??
Sundays are nothing much for the single. Esp. the aggressively single, the solitary. At least I can walk down 19th to Interlaken & observe the second growth—convolvulus seems to be the big winner this year.
I've almost finished Meta's section & almost finished Bruce Chatwin's life. (It went to his head.)
Am I jealous—yes, AIDs & all, I am. He didn't end up sitting in Seattle, bored & ignored. Too old by half & catless. What's the damn point. None in Seattle. It's hot. Too hot.
BM *Bucks (7/22/01)
What's in There?
What lessons did I learn way back that told me if at first you don't succeed, try again, and then if you don't succeed, kill yourself?
I wish I'd met some manic people early on. I wish I had met some cultured people before I got to college because by then it was too late.
It was all those books I read. There’s nothing else to do but repeat the pleasure. There's nothing else to do but send it on to others. And if others don't want it, you're SOL.
I'm SOL.
David tells me I should become a librarian. But I think I should have been a madcap heiress. Nothing for that but dreams. I will go quietly, I think, but I won't go until there's nothing else. In fact, I think I'm going to go to the food bank. Prolong the agony, more the fool.
(But do they have cookies?)
Lone rejection today. But polka-dot clouds at 6 p.m. & a breeze blowing up Capitol Hill. So, there are compensations. At night I have a nice book to transport me to Paris—and pianos!
There was a small (4-ish) earthquake yesterday about 8 a.m. & I missed it. Oh, but maybe the next one—maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight.
BM *Bucks 7/23/01
Between many indistinguishable things. Fine versus define: all words. In the real world, I can usually tell foolishness from true foolishness—for all the good that it does me.
Today: warm with hot flashes. I see many stick-skinny young girls in little skimpy dresses. (Maybe that's the look Jana's going for?) The storky legs do not appeal (to me) but I have to admit those girls look cool. Maybe if I got skinny, I'd look cool. Pfah! I've tried that. Nothing ever gets as thin as my face & neck. (I suppose I am my Grandma's E’s girl, in this respect.)
I won nothing, I sold nothing. I have no job. I have $29. I continue to oscillate. Or vacillate. (I don't know the difference, but I'll go home & find out.)
None of my options appeals to me. I'm already thinking—well, would I rather have to talk to Mom about this, or would I rather die? Easy answer, under the circumstances, but I don't think dying is necessarily that easy. Not as easy as falling off the bike...I don't think I could do something that elegant on purpose.
Wonderful warm weather & rain clouds out there over the water. How I crave—flight.
BM *Bux 7/20/01
Image #2 (or 3)
Paper crumbs – confetti, cool, dark summer afternoon & a sign. Well, I took it as a sign.
I was walking along 11th Avenue minding my own negative thoughts, when I heard a cry. I looked down & there beneath a bush was— a 'Mas cat. A big fat lovable ‘Mas cat with doo on his butt. I didn't pick him up, well, I wouldn't, but I petted him good & thorough. And I thought, oh, that's nice & I didn't expect it.
But then I didn't find money & I've got $12 plus my bureau savings—about another $12. A fifth of cheap vodka costs $7.85. I don't think a pint would render me well & truly unconscious. I'd still like to die outside. And I'd still like to live 20 or 30 years with cats & a house by the sea & 5 discerning fans. And some funny friends. Here's the short list of good people I've met here: Lee. Mitsu. David W. – & the rest of the library gang (Angela, Kate, John & Steve).
But the City—oh, Anne W. Well, there. Liz C. from before.
All right, then whose fault is that? Yes, mine for having standards. Lower them? No.
Image: iris, tulip, frog, dollar bill.
Bumble bee.
Fat blonde smoking a cigarette.
A plane, a train, a boat, a bus.
My two big feet.
Nice flamenco pouring down from Starbucks' ceiling. And castanets. When I was a girl, I wanted to play the castanets. I still do.
BM*Bux 7/21/01
Too Hot – no problem
At the end of the path, the heat matters only as much as the mosquitoes, yes annoying but what happened to the trail? Ooh, remember "To Build a Fire"? That may have been the best/worst thing we ever read in school. Right, a boys' stories. Maybe I should have...well, I tried with the Bear (or what? Yeti?) story. Path or patho.
I talked to Mom & it was okay. She said the fact that I hadn't worked was worrisome. I didn't ask for anything. (It's not worrisome, it's fatal.)
I'm not hurrying, though I am finding with anxiety I get more hot flashes. I have $8 plus bureau cash—& all I need is a scratch ticket. Tuesday I'll give up. Hope. Eternal spring. Fatal. Fate.
Luck??
Sundays are nothing much for the single. Esp. the aggressively single, the solitary. At least I can walk down 19th to Interlaken & observe the second growth—convolvulus seems to be the big winner this year.
I've almost finished Meta's section & almost finished Bruce Chatwin's life. (It went to his head.)
Am I jealous—yes, AIDs & all, I am. He didn't end up sitting in Seattle, bored & ignored. Too old by half & catless. What's the damn point. None in Seattle. It's hot. Too hot.
BM *Bucks (7/22/01)
What's in There?
What lessons did I learn way back that told me if at first you don't succeed, try again, and then if you don't succeed, kill yourself?
I wish I'd met some manic people early on. I wish I had met some cultured people before I got to college because by then it was too late.
It was all those books I read. There’s nothing else to do but repeat the pleasure. There's nothing else to do but send it on to others. And if others don't want it, you're SOL.
I'm SOL.
David tells me I should become a librarian. But I think I should have been a madcap heiress. Nothing for that but dreams. I will go quietly, I think, but I won't go until there's nothing else. In fact, I think I'm going to go to the food bank. Prolong the agony, more the fool.
(But do they have cookies?)
Lone rejection today. But polka-dot clouds at 6 p.m. & a breeze blowing up Capitol Hill. So, there are compensations. At night I have a nice book to transport me to Paris—and pianos!
There was a small (4-ish) earthquake yesterday about 8 a.m. & I missed it. Oh, but maybe the next one—maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight.
BM *Bucks 7/23/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:07 PM
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