Receding Into the Distance
Receding Into the Distance
All far-fetched hopes I might have for making it to next month, much less buying (or renting) a nice little house. In other words, my prospects. Get it? Pro spects.
Far-fetched & farther fleeing.
I've decided to believe that it's not a mirage but Grandma's oasis, and with Grandma's help I can get there.
On the other hand, tomorrow I really ought to go buy a pistol.
And today, the day I intended to ride the 48 bus to the end of the line—it rained & I didn't do anything except hang around. Oh, I talked to Mom & I rewrote Woman as Will & Idea but that's no way to burn calories. I sat & looked out at the rain & wished the movie would end.
I got down on my knees & prayed last night. So far no answer. (Grandma will do it when she has time.) And I hurt my bad knee, but I slept perfectly well.
And bi-N-bi the rain settled down to a dull spit & I went for a walk anyway. Golden Gardens may have to wait until another lifetime.
The rain that fell was misty & I ignored it as I walked down 19th & then down by the wild ravine, as if I were going to the U. District, but I turned left on Boyer & walked all the way back via the nice little houses (mostly) and jungley hillsides to Delmar & then 10th East.
For a while I could hear rock music from Volunteer Park—v. loud as I was almost a mile away. But it sounded good & drove my pace & then it stopped; and I don't know where all the gay folks went. There were a number of people, male & female, walking around with the red plastic cups that mean "drunken party" but not very many & they didn't look very gay.
I have $9 and need to buy: soda water. deli meat? olives? lettuce? I can do it.
BM *Bux 6/24/01
Happy Something
I walked up Broadway behind Carole G. admiring her aubergine hair—I'd never dare—but not her earrings which looked like fishing lures.
As I walked the block between Harrison & Thomas I tried to think of a name for it: the Junky Strip, Next Stop Detox. Even a cellist playing Bach can't save that block, not even a beautiful, dark haired cellist.
I took $200 out of my bank account leaving me short of rent by that much. Time (Kathy-Time or Kairos) stopped dead & I didn't realize it—until I stepped into the library. Server down. No Internet. No printing. Can't request books. So I made a list on the computer—& it put a worm in my file. I went down to the Internet cafe & cleaned it for fifty cents. I'm getting nowhere fast.
No mail either.
But I did two little bouts of writing and I saw two guys so studly I almost fell down trying not to gawk—especially at the one in the black leather shorts with his buns hanging out the bottom: And excellent buns they were too. That was on Broadway. (I should say; not looking where I was going, I almost tripped over a derelict.)
The other one was a big shirtless Marlboro-Man type with a tattoo on his bulgy bicep posing up at the reservoir overlook in Volunteer Park.
No cats, but I haven't finished looking.
I don't need to throw the bones.
*Bux 6/25/01
Title Fatigue
I have passed or surpassed the 10,000 mark on the title tally—without once repeating myself. Well, maybe once.
Anyway, I've run out of ideas, as anyone flipping though this book could see. "Happy Something"?
I've been feeling worse & worse about my prospects (from bad to very bad), so that I can't quite get myself to do downtown & buy the gun I need.
This immediately frees up maybe $200 for more appealing purchases, but it will not solve my problem. If I don't sell some writing in the next 2 or 3 or 4 days, I'm gonna have to...
But what, how? Obliteration is the only thing I would sacrifice for. But we don't get promises, and I scare myself sometimes.
Or it may not be fear, those weird oscillations of the physiology...they could be the result of estrogen plummets...whatever they are, I could do nicely without.
And man, I've been waking up ever more unwilling—you wouldn't believe it possible, no, nor can I. No sweetie, no cat to cuddle—all I want is to Not-Be. Go back where I wasn't just a second ago. I want to go back.
It takes some doing—breakfast & tea & a brisk walk—to make me willing to commit myself to this world, one more time.
And then—after the coffee, or after 2 or after someone talks to me or laughs at my joke—or after, as today, I look at one of my piles of paper & see some stuff that isn't so very bad. Pretty good, some of it. and so on.
And then I start thinking I must live. I must win through. No matter what. Then I wonder if that's what I get from praying to Grandma. Tenacity of life. As if she has Tomas & therefore I need not distress myself. I'll get there in time.
And I want to go to the Nisqually Delta, to see its reality.
*Bux 6/27?/02
Lip-Reading: Bibulous, Labile
Yes, my lips turn this way & that, but my bib is strictly the book kind. Oh yes, well. Ice water. I don't get...but I can get that yakky way when I encounter a friendly ear. Like Marcus today. Didn’t I flap my mouth at him (you getting lippy with me?) about DH Lawrence, about Australia, about email. Poor Marcus kept trying to interrupt.
Poor Lawrence too — it's enough to make you think the world hates genius. Lawrence didn't give up, now, did he, not till it killed him.
So what should I do? I do not wish to beg more money. I do not wish to buy a gun.
—Well, my dear, you don't wish a lot of things, do you?
So what I do is suspend myself by a filament – yes, magical thinking – above the abyss. Whee!
I realized today why I'm single & always will be. Because whenever anybody comes on to me, I hate it & hate them. Hm—frosty in here, isn't it? I want to do the coming on...but that doesn't work either.
I'm sitting here talking to Lee about everything, and Ginny Anderson walks in. Wo.
BM *Bux 6/28/01
All far-fetched hopes I might have for making it to next month, much less buying (or renting) a nice little house. In other words, my prospects. Get it? Pro spects.
Far-fetched & farther fleeing.
I've decided to believe that it's not a mirage but Grandma's oasis, and with Grandma's help I can get there.
On the other hand, tomorrow I really ought to go buy a pistol.
And today, the day I intended to ride the 48 bus to the end of the line—it rained & I didn't do anything except hang around. Oh, I talked to Mom & I rewrote Woman as Will & Idea but that's no way to burn calories. I sat & looked out at the rain & wished the movie would end.
I got down on my knees & prayed last night. So far no answer. (Grandma will do it when she has time.) And I hurt my bad knee, but I slept perfectly well.
And bi-N-bi the rain settled down to a dull spit & I went for a walk anyway. Golden Gardens may have to wait until another lifetime.
The rain that fell was misty & I ignored it as I walked down 19th & then down by the wild ravine, as if I were going to the U. District, but I turned left on Boyer & walked all the way back via the nice little houses (mostly) and jungley hillsides to Delmar & then 10th East.
For a while I could hear rock music from Volunteer Park—v. loud as I was almost a mile away. But it sounded good & drove my pace & then it stopped; and I don't know where all the gay folks went. There were a number of people, male & female, walking around with the red plastic cups that mean "drunken party" but not very many & they didn't look very gay.
I have $9 and need to buy: soda water. deli meat? olives? lettuce? I can do it.
BM *Bux 6/24/01
Happy Something
I walked up Broadway behind Carole G. admiring her aubergine hair—I'd never dare—but not her earrings which looked like fishing lures.
As I walked the block between Harrison & Thomas I tried to think of a name for it: the Junky Strip, Next Stop Detox. Even a cellist playing Bach can't save that block, not even a beautiful, dark haired cellist.
I took $200 out of my bank account leaving me short of rent by that much. Time (Kathy-Time or Kairos) stopped dead & I didn't realize it—until I stepped into the library. Server down. No Internet. No printing. Can't request books. So I made a list on the computer—& it put a worm in my file. I went down to the Internet cafe & cleaned it for fifty cents. I'm getting nowhere fast.
No mail either.
But I did two little bouts of writing and I saw two guys so studly I almost fell down trying not to gawk—especially at the one in the black leather shorts with his buns hanging out the bottom: And excellent buns they were too. That was on Broadway. (I should say; not looking where I was going, I almost tripped over a derelict.)
The other one was a big shirtless Marlboro-Man type with a tattoo on his bulgy bicep posing up at the reservoir overlook in Volunteer Park.
No cats, but I haven't finished looking.
I don't need to throw the bones.
*Bux 6/25/01
Title Fatigue
I have passed or surpassed the 10,000 mark on the title tally—without once repeating myself. Well, maybe once.
Anyway, I've run out of ideas, as anyone flipping though this book could see. "Happy Something"?
I've been feeling worse & worse about my prospects (from bad to very bad), so that I can't quite get myself to do downtown & buy the gun I need.
This immediately frees up maybe $200 for more appealing purchases, but it will not solve my problem. If I don't sell some writing in the next 2 or 3 or 4 days, I'm gonna have to...
But what, how? Obliteration is the only thing I would sacrifice for. But we don't get promises, and I scare myself sometimes.
Or it may not be fear, those weird oscillations of the physiology...they could be the result of estrogen plummets...whatever they are, I could do nicely without.
And man, I've been waking up ever more unwilling—you wouldn't believe it possible, no, nor can I. No sweetie, no cat to cuddle—all I want is to Not-Be. Go back where I wasn't just a second ago. I want to go back.
It takes some doing—breakfast & tea & a brisk walk—to make me willing to commit myself to this world, one more time.
And then—after the coffee, or after 2 or after someone talks to me or laughs at my joke—or after, as today, I look at one of my piles of paper & see some stuff that isn't so very bad. Pretty good, some of it. and so on.
And then I start thinking I must live. I must win through. No matter what. Then I wonder if that's what I get from praying to Grandma. Tenacity of life. As if she has Tomas & therefore I need not distress myself. I'll get there in time.
And I want to go to the Nisqually Delta, to see its reality.
*Bux 6/27?/02
Lip-Reading: Bibulous, Labile
Yes, my lips turn this way & that, but my bib is strictly the book kind. Oh yes, well. Ice water. I don't get...but I can get that yakky way when I encounter a friendly ear. Like Marcus today. Didn’t I flap my mouth at him (you getting lippy with me?) about DH Lawrence, about Australia, about email. Poor Marcus kept trying to interrupt.
Poor Lawrence too — it's enough to make you think the world hates genius. Lawrence didn't give up, now, did he, not till it killed him.
So what should I do? I do not wish to beg more money. I do not wish to buy a gun.
—Well, my dear, you don't wish a lot of things, do you?
So what I do is suspend myself by a filament – yes, magical thinking – above the abyss. Whee!
I realized today why I'm single & always will be. Because whenever anybody comes on to me, I hate it & hate them. Hm—frosty in here, isn't it? I want to do the coming on...but that doesn't work either.
I'm sitting here talking to Lee about everything, and Ginny Anderson walks in. Wo.
BM *Bux 6/28/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 5:03 PM
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