Tonic
Tonic
A small scare, like a tiny bit, just a grain, of strychnine, clears away the cobwebs & makes your eyes bright. Wide & bright.
So, after an earthquake, you marvel at survival.
And in the days to follow, whenever you go into a new space, you look around for where you might shelter, just in case. Here (OW/BM Starbucks) there are no auspicious spots—one doorway besides the front & that's all glass. Flimsy tables. I guess we'd go for the supporting pillars away from the windows. Or panic & scream & run outside.
We all tell our quake stories. I'm surprised to find out from young Dan that his apartment (on 13th & Pine by the Fire Station) was trashed. A plant fell on his bed & he woke up spitting dirt.
I'm not confident of safety. That is to say, I am not nervous exactly—what I feel is a bit short of actual fright tor even anxiety, but I have a feeling that there's going to be another. Well, of course there is—from E's point of view (Mama Erde), we shakin like a bowlful of jelly [ho ho ho], all the (deep) time. And it is, in effect, continuous as the big plates grrrind their way from here to there. (But why? What is the earth's crusty old crust doing--& how silly of us to trust our fortunes to it. [On th'other hand, where can we trust our fortunes? We never developed feathery wings] ). And will the next one be a Big or Small one? We'll see or...we won't.
I've read & read over my old journal ('77) & you know what I've learned?
Hm, you want to know? Simple statements satisfy. Like this one: All evening Tomas hunted moths in the kitchen.
BM Starbs 3/3/01
Flung Masonry
Doesn't have the same impact, does it, as flung bricks, or even flying bricks. The more syllables, the less impact, right Ernie? "Less punch," says Ernie.
On Capitol Hill: Brick chimneys & cornices & little dadoes like feathers in a flapper's headband, all fallen. Surprises, as you look around. Hey, glad I wasn't standing there.
Four days post-quake, I've returned to the pain of my bad shoulder. Or is it a tumor? The thyroid can enlarge even below the sternum, as well as push out the neck to a truly disgusting degree. In fact, the more I find out about the neck & chest, the less I like it. I really should get some medical care...for which I first need money or insurance. And it doesn't seem like there's any way from here to there. Not, at any rate, as easy a route as from here to oblivion.
Though even that's not quite a trunk road.
Did I tell you what I learned from reading old diaries? I did? Let me tell you again. 1) I always felt awful. 2) How the writer feels is boring. 3) The more syllables, the weaker the prose. Like a bunch of skinny legs for support instead of one big pillar. Or something. 4) Avoid phrases such as au fond.
Or maybe I've just grown simpler with the years. My pretenses have um trickled away like um sand from um an hourglass. You know. But sentences about the cat never fail to please. (I love him still.)
Having a shoulder ache makes me wish to go. Being gone (asleep) is best. Coming back lets me down every time.
I also spend too many words on feeling bad—about whatever I'm feeling bad about: money, writing (not writing), aches & pains, love lack.
Then that college boy over there goes into his nose with a napkined index finger like the Roto-Rooter & grosses me out.
BM Starbucks 3/7?/01
Girl Friends
To my left, two girls in jeans study statistics together, laughing away. "I'm not going to do that, like Teresa. She wears lipstick—and shoes."
I'm in the clouded over state—like today's sky. After a week or two, working, nothing noticed, it's bloomin out there. But cold & overcast & I'm not laughing. I have $35 to last me until Friday, and J is back in the state & wants to meet. I don't want to see her lifted mug. I don't want to listen to her talk any more boring shit about Wyoming or her old college boyfriends.
I went for a walk around by the GAR cemetery & down to the cake store, counting my money over & over. Petted those 2 silky cats (‘Mas style & b/w—excellent) by the Interlaken Park overlook. I saw a tall guy who looked like me (solitary walker in plaid jacket), only crazier & maybe murderous. (ha ha, unlike me)
My arm still hurts but I quit taking aspirin so my stomach doesn't. I have 3 (so far) boring tasks at the City Personnel job, which I can trade off & wear anything I want. I wish I had money & girlfriends and cats.
15th Ave Starbs 3/11/01
A small scare, like a tiny bit, just a grain, of strychnine, clears away the cobwebs & makes your eyes bright. Wide & bright.
So, after an earthquake, you marvel at survival.
And in the days to follow, whenever you go into a new space, you look around for where you might shelter, just in case. Here (OW/BM Starbucks) there are no auspicious spots—one doorway besides the front & that's all glass. Flimsy tables. I guess we'd go for the supporting pillars away from the windows. Or panic & scream & run outside.
We all tell our quake stories. I'm surprised to find out from young Dan that his apartment (on 13th & Pine by the Fire Station) was trashed. A plant fell on his bed & he woke up spitting dirt.
I'm not confident of safety. That is to say, I am not nervous exactly—what I feel is a bit short of actual fright tor even anxiety, but I have a feeling that there's going to be another. Well, of course there is—from E's point of view (Mama Erde), we shakin like a bowlful of jelly [ho ho ho], all the (deep) time. And it is, in effect, continuous as the big plates grrrind their way from here to there. (But why? What is the earth's crusty old crust doing--& how silly of us to trust our fortunes to it. [On th'other hand, where can we trust our fortunes? We never developed feathery wings] ). And will the next one be a Big or Small one? We'll see or...we won't.
I've read & read over my old journal ('77) & you know what I've learned?
Hm, you want to know? Simple statements satisfy. Like this one: All evening Tomas hunted moths in the kitchen.
BM Starbs 3/3/01
Flung Masonry
Doesn't have the same impact, does it, as flung bricks, or even flying bricks. The more syllables, the less impact, right Ernie? "Less punch," says Ernie.
On Capitol Hill: Brick chimneys & cornices & little dadoes like feathers in a flapper's headband, all fallen. Surprises, as you look around. Hey, glad I wasn't standing there.
Four days post-quake, I've returned to the pain of my bad shoulder. Or is it a tumor? The thyroid can enlarge even below the sternum, as well as push out the neck to a truly disgusting degree. In fact, the more I find out about the neck & chest, the less I like it. I really should get some medical care...for which I first need money or insurance. And it doesn't seem like there's any way from here to there. Not, at any rate, as easy a route as from here to oblivion.
Though even that's not quite a trunk road.
Did I tell you what I learned from reading old diaries? I did? Let me tell you again. 1) I always felt awful. 2) How the writer feels is boring. 3) The more syllables, the weaker the prose. Like a bunch of skinny legs for support instead of one big pillar. Or something. 4) Avoid phrases such as au fond.
Or maybe I've just grown simpler with the years. My pretenses have um trickled away like um sand from um an hourglass. You know. But sentences about the cat never fail to please. (I love him still.)
Having a shoulder ache makes me wish to go. Being gone (asleep) is best. Coming back lets me down every time.
I also spend too many words on feeling bad—about whatever I'm feeling bad about: money, writing (not writing), aches & pains, love lack.
Then that college boy over there goes into his nose with a napkined index finger like the Roto-Rooter & grosses me out.
BM Starbucks 3/7?/01
Girl Friends
To my left, two girls in jeans study statistics together, laughing away. "I'm not going to do that, like Teresa. She wears lipstick—and shoes."
I'm in the clouded over state—like today's sky. After a week or two, working, nothing noticed, it's bloomin out there. But cold & overcast & I'm not laughing. I have $35 to last me until Friday, and J is back in the state & wants to meet. I don't want to see her lifted mug. I don't want to listen to her talk any more boring shit about Wyoming or her old college boyfriends.
I went for a walk around by the GAR cemetery & down to the cake store, counting my money over & over. Petted those 2 silky cats (‘Mas style & b/w—excellent) by the Interlaken Park overlook. I saw a tall guy who looked like me (solitary walker in plaid jacket), only crazier & maybe murderous. (ha ha, unlike me)
My arm still hurts but I quit taking aspirin so my stomach doesn't. I have 3 (so far) boring tasks at the City Personnel job, which I can trade off & wear anything I want. I wish I had money & girlfriends and cats.
15th Ave Starbs 3/11/01
posted by K. E. Ellingson at 4:04 PM
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