Now I Can See
Now I Can See
Danny comes by, in his black leather jacket, & turns on the lamp. It is an ugly lamp but the bulb is bright. "Now you can see," he says & pats my good shoulder. That boy's a credit to his mom.
I miss Lee. All weekend it looked rainy, so I went to the Starbucks up by home & got harangued by Hilda. Inaudibly as ever.
Today the clouds cleared off & the sun shone. I did my laundry & wrote a letter to JHY. It's a bad letter, but I don't care. My shoulder hurts—well, that's not new, but it hurts down my arm in a way that bodes ill. Or maybe not, but it seems like my throat is fuller too. It makes me tired. It makes me self-preoccupied & mad that the world & pleasure are shut away from me.
To my right a Rumanian is arguing with a woman & another man—no, they are all 3 argue-discussing some business deal. Money, investments. The guy with the accent sounds shady, but guys with accents always do.
BM Starb's 3/18/01
Nothing Wrong with a Little Talk
Lee & I sat & talked about...um about. I don't remember anything we talked about – of course that was yesterday & a lot happened last night [in my brain] – except that Elmer is back in heat ("oh honey, I used to have the same problem") & he showed me some drawings he had done: a seahorse in mosaic, a devil who looked just like him, & I wish I too could draw pictures to illustrate:
E.g., Those 3 young folk in the window flooded in 4:30 sidelight. But I'm so blind these days I can hardly see them. The girl in the pink sweater, black pony-tail & glasses is Chinese.
It's the light I want to draw, but the ink in my pen is black.
Not so crowded today. Lee says they have all gone to Snoqualmie, and he gives me another half pound of coffee. Whatta guy.
Last night I dreamed. It was a warm night & I drank a beer, so maybe I woke up more often than usual (is that possible?) or dreamed the minute I slept—& my shoulder throbbed & I decided that it was (& it seemed perfectly self-evident) a tumor in my chest. So maybe these are the good days & the ones to come will be worse.
But I dreamed: a visit to Vicki's (a fairy tale cabin), the finch that hadn't been fed or watered, the bumblebee that someone stupid tried to catch with a jar & a tam o’shanter or crocheted pot-holder ("no, get a piece of cardboard," I kept yelling) & the little flying teddy-cat ('Mas) that flew out of sight and away, & I went into the captain’s cabin to find the #'s—they were on strips of paper like ticker-tape, or Chinese fortune cookie fortunes: The ones for "last night—not fixed" were 6 8 18 24 28 49 or the 18 may have been 16 & the 49 may have been 47.
And yet today the #s are something completely else. So much for my dreams.
I have cleaned my house in a slapdash way. I have stretched & tensed my shoulders. I have gotten soaked in the rain (last night). I have seen a 'Mas cat up a tree. I have sat inside all day Sunday until 4 & lived other lives vicariously (James Dickey family). Luckily the rain stopped & the sun came out. Nice for walking, but I didn't go far enough. Long shadows. Clean light. Spring is full, as ever, of daffodils.
BM Starbucks 3/24?/01
Overheard at Rush-Hour
The 2 boys, one in turtleneck & Sartre glasses, the other boyish & sportif, talk of someone who flies all over covering the news & lives in a 6 bedroom house in Mill Valley. And I hate them all & their friends too. The traffic runs up & down Olive while I overlook... maybe there will be a crash. The sun sets behind a brick pile named Biltmore, the very brick pile I used to look at from my bad vibe apartment at Faneuil Hall.
I'd like to think the sun is making me as distinct as the Asian girls yesterday, but I think I am obscure. That's the problem, I am obscure.
I have First Day Off (is this all there is?) syndrome, when I flip through papers & pile them in a likely order—and then stop. I got no mail. That could make a girl mad—after a while. Lacquer painted on the northwest windows of the high-rises just downtown from here. Nice at 6:10 & the day clings for just a bit longer. A rainbow in the eastern sky as I walked out after a hailstorm & then a prism in the window. Nice effect.
And the clouds...that mass of bliss blue-purple-slate cloud against pinkish white, streaming to the zenith & billowing south like blown smoke. O. do I miss ecstasy? do I miss Tomas? Is it better not to think of it? Don't look back. Go on.
BM Starb's 3/26/01
Pointy Hoods
The fashion for the young (& disaffected) is hooded sweatshirts, & they zip them against the rain, & look like pointy-headed turtles. You can shop at Kmart & come out ugly but you can't achieve the Broadway youth ugly look without some care—Urban Outfitters or Value Village.
But everyone shops at VV. Even I would if I shopped at all. An article, if I wanted to talk gussets & knits. Or synthetic fibers. I see myself sorting through piles of garments. I do not see myself enjoying it.
It has rained all day & I have gotten nowhere. I still believe that a limen, a border will be crossed & it will happen. Well, "it" has happened, but each time "it" stops. Meaning, I can't seem to get any momentum. Maybe if I sold 2 pieces at once...esp. if one was to the New Yorker. If I could sell my novel—what do I want? Enough money to fix my health & go to the Raftsund. That would take a lotto in itself—but I dreamed #s. Otherwise, what I want is for it to start not raining. Nights are bad.
BM Starbucks 3/27/01
Small Rain for the Most Part
For much of the day, small rain sifts like mist. No.
I look around Capitol Hill, sulky-eyed, not liking what I see, thinking how has it changed, and how has it changed for the worse? In all ways? Open yards gone. Rows of houses replaced by highrises. But I don't much mind them—places to live for people who'd live in places like that.
And, my dear, the styles. I never wore anything that ugly after about 1961 or so. (Um, maybe). Okay, until just recently.
Here comes Hilda. I relent—from having ignored her first 4 sallies....but then she sits over there & whispers. She's getting big hair. She likes my hair. A man drives up in a yellow trike with an exterior body. I mean it looks like a jet cockpit; complete, the girl at the end table tells me, with windshield wiper.
Well, what won't they think of next? (I miss so much, not having a TV...and most of it I'm glad to miss.)
15th Starbucks 3/28/01
Danny comes by, in his black leather jacket, & turns on the lamp. It is an ugly lamp but the bulb is bright. "Now you can see," he says & pats my good shoulder. That boy's a credit to his mom.
I miss Lee. All weekend it looked rainy, so I went to the Starbucks up by home & got harangued by Hilda. Inaudibly as ever.
Today the clouds cleared off & the sun shone. I did my laundry & wrote a letter to JHY. It's a bad letter, but I don't care. My shoulder hurts—well, that's not new, but it hurts down my arm in a way that bodes ill. Or maybe not, but it seems like my throat is fuller too. It makes me tired. It makes me self-preoccupied & mad that the world & pleasure are shut away from me.
To my right a Rumanian is arguing with a woman & another man—no, they are all 3 argue-discussing some business deal. Money, investments. The guy with the accent sounds shady, but guys with accents always do.
BM Starb's 3/18/01
Nothing Wrong with a Little Talk
Lee & I sat & talked about...um about. I don't remember anything we talked about – of course that was yesterday & a lot happened last night [in my brain] – except that Elmer is back in heat ("oh honey, I used to have the same problem") & he showed me some drawings he had done: a seahorse in mosaic, a devil who looked just like him, & I wish I too could draw pictures to illustrate:
E.g., Those 3 young folk in the window flooded in 4:30 sidelight. But I'm so blind these days I can hardly see them. The girl in the pink sweater, black pony-tail & glasses is Chinese.
It's the light I want to draw, but the ink in my pen is black.
Not so crowded today. Lee says they have all gone to Snoqualmie, and he gives me another half pound of coffee. Whatta guy.
Last night I dreamed. It was a warm night & I drank a beer, so maybe I woke up more often than usual (is that possible?) or dreamed the minute I slept—& my shoulder throbbed & I decided that it was (& it seemed perfectly self-evident) a tumor in my chest. So maybe these are the good days & the ones to come will be worse.
But I dreamed: a visit to Vicki's (a fairy tale cabin), the finch that hadn't been fed or watered, the bumblebee that someone stupid tried to catch with a jar & a tam o’shanter or crocheted pot-holder ("no, get a piece of cardboard," I kept yelling) & the little flying teddy-cat ('Mas) that flew out of sight and away, & I went into the captain’s cabin to find the #'s—they were on strips of paper like ticker-tape, or Chinese fortune cookie fortunes: The ones for "last night—not fixed" were 6 8 18 24 28 49 or the 18 may have been 16 & the 49 may have been 47.
And yet today the #s are something completely else. So much for my dreams.
I have cleaned my house in a slapdash way. I have stretched & tensed my shoulders. I have gotten soaked in the rain (last night). I have seen a 'Mas cat up a tree. I have sat inside all day Sunday until 4 & lived other lives vicariously (James Dickey family). Luckily the rain stopped & the sun came out. Nice for walking, but I didn't go far enough. Long shadows. Clean light. Spring is full, as ever, of daffodils.
BM Starbucks 3/24?/01
Overheard at Rush-Hour
The 2 boys, one in turtleneck & Sartre glasses, the other boyish & sportif, talk of someone who flies all over covering the news & lives in a 6 bedroom house in Mill Valley. And I hate them all & their friends too. The traffic runs up & down Olive while I overlook... maybe there will be a crash. The sun sets behind a brick pile named Biltmore, the very brick pile I used to look at from my bad vibe apartment at Faneuil Hall.
I'd like to think the sun is making me as distinct as the Asian girls yesterday, but I think I am obscure. That's the problem, I am obscure.
I have First Day Off (is this all there is?) syndrome, when I flip through papers & pile them in a likely order—and then stop. I got no mail. That could make a girl mad—after a while. Lacquer painted on the northwest windows of the high-rises just downtown from here. Nice at 6:10 & the day clings for just a bit longer. A rainbow in the eastern sky as I walked out after a hailstorm & then a prism in the window. Nice effect.
And the clouds...that mass of bliss blue-purple-slate cloud against pinkish white, streaming to the zenith & billowing south like blown smoke. O. do I miss ecstasy? do I miss Tomas? Is it better not to think of it? Don't look back. Go on.
BM Starb's 3/26/01
Pointy Hoods
The fashion for the young (& disaffected) is hooded sweatshirts, & they zip them against the rain, & look like pointy-headed turtles. You can shop at Kmart & come out ugly but you can't achieve the Broadway youth ugly look without some care—Urban Outfitters or Value Village.
But everyone shops at VV. Even I would if I shopped at all. An article, if I wanted to talk gussets & knits. Or synthetic fibers. I see myself sorting through piles of garments. I do not see myself enjoying it.
It has rained all day & I have gotten nowhere. I still believe that a limen, a border will be crossed & it will happen. Well, "it" has happened, but each time "it" stops. Meaning, I can't seem to get any momentum. Maybe if I sold 2 pieces at once...esp. if one was to the New Yorker. If I could sell my novel—what do I want? Enough money to fix my health & go to the Raftsund. That would take a lotto in itself—but I dreamed #s. Otherwise, what I want is for it to start not raining. Nights are bad.
BM Starbucks 3/27/01
Small Rain for the Most Part
For much of the day, small rain sifts like mist. No.
I look around Capitol Hill, sulky-eyed, not liking what I see, thinking how has it changed, and how has it changed for the worse? In all ways? Open yards gone. Rows of houses replaced by highrises. But I don't much mind them—places to live for people who'd live in places like that.
And, my dear, the styles. I never wore anything that ugly after about 1961 or so. (Um, maybe). Okay, until just recently.
Here comes Hilda. I relent—from having ignored her first 4 sallies....but then she sits over there & whispers. She's getting big hair. She likes my hair. A man drives up in a yellow trike with an exterior body. I mean it looks like a jet cockpit; complete, the girl at the end table tells me, with windshield wiper.
Well, what won't they think of next? (I miss so much, not having a TV...and most of it I'm glad to miss.)
15th Starbucks 3/28/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:08 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home