2001 - Resolved...

You Say You Want a Resolution?
This year I ought to quit smoking but I won’t. Probably. I do intend to walk faster or farther—or start running (again). I can make all sorts of plans to make money until I’m stopped short by the necessity of getting up at 7.
I don’t sleep well & I’ve been having nasty & insufficient dreams. Now & then I think I have a good idea, but I suspect that is just the last gasp of estrogen. So, should I write an essay on hormones? Gay men?
B(oston) M(arket) Starbucks 1/2/01

Facing Forward

Ooh, what's that?
Facing forward then, stalwart into the future...
I made it rain today. I did it the usual way, by trying to run an errand clear to Ballard, a place I've only been 3 or 4 times & don't wish to see more of. I hung around just a little too long & then all the buses were running the other way. I got a bus driver worthy of being hit with a two-by-four, but I knew it right off & didn't believe a word he said. But I still didn't get a shoulder bag.
So, rather than give over the day, I went to the cheap Asian haircut store & found the price had gone up. My haircutter didn't speak more than 5 or 6 words of English, but she cut my hair OK. I think. If not, I bought a mirror so I can see the back & will snip at the edges.

I got to the library right in time to finish the Fritz piece, the 2nd part. I need to catch up. (I mean, the Future keeps happening) I think I'll jump to his collapse? (Or should I leave that to go with PofV?) (Then should I write an essay on happiness or its lack? Or on journals? Or crafts—oh, macramé). Then to pile Pelican on Os humeri, I found a bunch of physiotherapy—stretches for my fucked up shoulder. I can only remember 3 but I'm sure they'll keep me busy until it heals. But then I forgot to buy smokes...so should I quit?
15th Starbucks 1/3/01

It's Called Rain
And it ever starts falling at just the time I plan to go out & run my errands. Even today when I didn't do enough to justify my (artistic) conscience: A page and a half, that is, with no struggle. So I didn't struggle, or justify. I ast tas sta sat around thinking about all the revision I could be doing & watching the sidewalk submerge. "Maybe tomorrow," I said. If I'd a had a cat, I’d a taken a nice nap. I'd a taken that cat in hand and...
What's funny is that thinking about how I don't take naps reminds me of that first winter back here, or maybe the second—and the comfortless rain. It makes me wish to end. Finish. Be gone. Done & gone. And you know, there's nothing I can adduce from the last 10 years to contravene or mitigate that, what, judgment (is it a judgment?). My novel—nope. Slap it aside. The re-rag with Fred? Laugh it to scorn. The foster cats...umm, well, someone would have taken care of them.
Kurt Cobain? The music of Nirvana. So maybe Kurt died for my pains. (It’s a sin against yourself to love someone else that much.) (Talking Tomas here.)
A bus ride that otherwise would merely skirt the limit of tolerability hurtles into the abyss of Ick when it rains. Everyone expands when wet. If we have umbrellas, we expand even more. We stink like wet sheep. And the windows fog and dot over so you can't see out.

I’ve got my hair short enough so it almost doesn't matter if it blows straight up in the air. Or not to me.
15th Starbs 1/5/01

Wind & Rain
Could be Cockney rhyming slang for pain, but it has no smile in it, innit. Faucet & drain? Top hat & cane?

I read the web about my shoulder, how it doesn't get better, in fact, it gets worse. So maybe it is bursitis, in which case it will get better by itself—or it won't. Or I might have spurs. Yes, cowgirl me. And what I have to worry about is frozen shoulder syndrome. That's worse than frozen butt syndrome, or cold feet, cold hands, cold heart. Frozen shoulder doesn't thaw.
I'd like to think that these afflictions are temporary, but I think they are only temporary to the extent that I am. I mean it's going to be like this until it gets worse. And then I die.
It all makes me feel so trapped. Trapped in my overpriced apartment, trapped in boring backward Seattle, trapped in my old age & pessimism. And how can I get money if I can't get up in the morning & work?
Well, I can't, can I? I'll just have to get some fucking pay for my fucking words...

All I feel like doing is jotting lists. Memory in bite size pieces. Music, for instance. Led Zeppelin's first album & that guy with the reddish blond hair, name all gone, who wanted me very very much, And with "How Many More Times" & "I Can't Quit You," I wanted somebody—only not him. That was torture. I wanted someone commensurate with that music. Jimmy Page, maybe.
B.M. Starbucks 1/6/01

Travel Metaphors
No, I don't think I do. Like it that way.
I went clear out to Ballard, that's further away than hell, and what an exciting time I had, trying to find things. Like a bag. Like a bus. Much searching followed by small success. A small bag, a small bus. And a good look at great, flat ugly Ballard all laid out under the sky with little cheap houses—like you might find in Parkland. And weird garage shops & no trees, they must have cut them all down & never planted any more. Nice railroad tracks though. I walked across the tracks & entered the Fred Meyers by the back door—amazingly, right by the bags. It would have been more amazing if they'd had just the bag I wanted. Too much to ask.

On the way over I took a 28 bus that went along west Lake Union & a number of new buildings, the purpose of which was not obvious. Then we snuck into Fremont the back way, and I looked for Lee's apartment but Fremont was foreign, seen from an unaccustomed angle. There were people swarming the sidewalks. I hate Seattle.

My shoulder was very painful last night, but I slept pretty well & this morning it didn't hurt at all—what do you think of that? I was so pleased that I decided to live after all, and intend to call the City job line tomorrow. –But now, I forgot to buy my cake. I ate "dinner," at 2 p.m. and I'm starving, and I forgot to get cake. I may have to eat some real food.
15th Ave Starbucks 1/6/01

I Took a Load to the Dump
That's something to do with your load. But once you get it to the dump, what then? Leave it. Throw it all away, as Bishop Umeki said to Ira. And look, look at the seagulls, hundreds of them, like flying Christs of the Andes.
The rain began as I stepped out the back door. It wasn't as bad as I expected—we've had several days of steady rain from 10 or 11 on & all the drains overflowing by 2. Today it intermitted & pattered off & the air turned cool. The moon illuminates the clouds like a diva in chiffon. My hair sticks out in the back like a bustle. My shoulder hurts. I look like a nice lady with bustle-back hair, but I am not. I sour milk, I gainsay your faith, I blight your hopes, I laugh at your haberdashery. I fart more than I used to, too.

Water drops on the green metal tables out front but the sidewalks are dry. Not bad for the first weeks or two of January. I feel all right, considering.
But I want more people to make me laugh. Or I want more people to make laugh. (I must ask JHY about that.)
A lot depends on how well I sleep. What sort(s) of dreams I have. If I don't have something coming in soon, I'll have to make arrangements. You know. I have $450. Tout ensemble.
15th Starbucks 1/8/01

Rules 4 Living

Rules 4 Living
1) Keep breathing
2) Don't stop
3) Repeat as needed
A chorus line of high-bottomed, long-legged wooden chairs stands looking out the window. A weeping palm. Hanging lights: I never describe any of my cafes. Do I care? Do I wish, when reading back, that I had written what color the walls were (magenta in the MM after it re-opened the last time), or are (orange & yellow here). This place is oblong with cut outs & a vaulted half-ceiling—well, that's what I'd call it. Two-story box of glass. Banquette against the north wall—we like these seats best.
I developed a sore throat last night, on top of (& to the side of) my choke spot. Doesn't seem worth it, does it? I'm still breathing. At moments I...almost...feel...(feeeel)...that somehow...it might...be...all right...
Delusion. Oddly
But then Marcus come in, fresh back from having his shoulder tendons repaired. He's going to share his physical therapy exercises with me.
15th Ave Starb's 1/9/01

Mountain Dreams
Camp? Or the cabin. I was there with Nancy M. Fred—who paid no attention to us (maybe he was on TV?) (I think he was Monsieur Verdoux)—jumped on his wife or a cot & pulled a sleeping bag over them & he throttled her. Nancy & I looked askance at each other. I think then I started to call 911 & Fred went up in flames. Or went in flames up the flue—there was a high ceiling—like the one I was trying to describe at the 15th Ave Starbucks. And that was the end of that episode. Then I undoubtedly woke up with my throat full of quills or spines or... Four or five wakings, one or two hot flashes & my throat all rasty every time. Each time I woke I drank water from the jug by my bed

Today, sunshine made everything seem worthwhile even though nothing is worthwhile. I sold no writing. I got no job. There's a policeman sitting so that his service pistol (don’t think they’re revolvers anymore) about 6" beyond my reach. But I grab not. Frustrated beyond description by my inability to mold the world to my liking.
But I can always read.
B.M. Starbucks 1/10/01

Air Wages
Man & woman talking mouth & sign, so that I can't stop staring. I wish I could speak it too. He's deaf. They are.... I like them. I wish they were my friends. They're gay too. Do I wish I were gay? No, nor deaf. Do I wish I had a professional career, that I saw clients—like she does? (Actually, if I swung for girls, she'd be my kind.) (And they have cats too.)

I have made it to Thursday night with no progress. Fiscal, I mean. I decided, as I do when we come right down to the time to go, not to buy a gun. Not today anyway.
Last night my sore throat was very rasty. Only when I tried to sleep, of course. I got up at 1 & read for a while, figuring maybe I could give myself a sleep deprivation high like I did in August when I drank the foxglove. I didn't (get high) but I did get out the throat lozenges & they worked. I slept & woke (got up at 9:30) & the last dream I had was that I was on 24th Street, the north side, by where the Iglesia used to be. And there was this crazy guy who came out (all the buildings were derelict & boarded) with this cat, he had painted the cat (he was a crazy light-skinned black guy, like a psychotic Malcolm X). I was enraged & took the cat so I could run up to the vet's at Castro. The cat didn’t seem too bad, it was purring & my anxiety was a little assuaged—as I work up.
Today my throat is better & I only feel a slight choke—the same as before.
And I did not work except shuffle papers & make pen marks on Connections. (But wouldn't it make a movie?) And I got no mail.

Just as I was trying to fix the sticky-out bits of my neck hair, I heard sirens cutting out—so I casually walked out front & there were 6 or 7 police cars & a taxi—empty with doors open—in the middle of Thomas & besides the cops, a guy in a camel hair coat striding back & forth. I didn't feel like hanging around to find out what it was about, so I went to the library & did some agent letters. But on the way a big fat long-haired black cat seduced me. I did like that. And it didn't rain.
BM Starbs 1/11/01

They're So Nice
These kids at the Starbucks (Tex & the dark-haired girl w/ the tongue stud) are so good to me—give me a free quarter pounder when they can't find any Colombian. And I still have my gift certificate. And though it's raining again, it's not raining very hard & though I haven't sold any writing, I didn't get any rejections either.

I did laundry & some cheese-paring corrections on....and I peeked at Matry. —and thought about W. Trevor's skill, how unobtrusive a story-teller he is. How does he do it?
Could I? For some reason, I felt satisfied with the work I did. I always do too little, but I felt like some progress was made. I "finished" Epimenides. I don't think it's good, but it's more whole than I ever expected. I mean I think it really is complete.
15th Ave Starbucks 1/12/01

Rain Rain
All day, your typical winter Saturday. I had only half-good books to read (half or less--Rebecca West on Saint Augustine!), but I did some paper shuffling & found a nice quote in my commonplace book--from me. It was so good, I can only think I must have stolen it.
I didn't get any other work done. Tap tap tap at the library, but it was all pummeled clay—which is what you get with computer rewrites. A disinclination to start fresh, even when you know you should. And I know I should call upon Her to help me.

Peter Gabriel & some violent drumming shifted my mental shape. It may have been that --"The Rhythm of the Heat" as much as the pithy sayings in my CP Book—that made my heart glad.
I felt that I could step through time.

Last night I had to take an antihistamine & I slept deeply for much of the night. I dreamed I was looking at the grade slips from all my college classes—the ones I've been continually taking the last 20 years. And I found I'd gotten an F in one of them—existentialism?—and I knew it was because I just sat there & never said anything, and the prof. assumed that I—a silent female—knew nothing. I had mixed feelings about the un/fairness of this, but mostly I was chagrinned at an F.
BM Starbucks 1/12/01

Cold

Cold Cold
It is, and I have one . Both contribute to my nasal burbling. This is the third day of that. But compare, this is the third or fourth month of shoulder-ache, and the 2nd year of throat pressure.

Nice to double words for titles. I mean, it's easy, it seems, oh I don't know, organic, or maybe I mean natural, and you never know what you might get. Perhaps an incantation.

Then come in two men wearing dresses. They cross themselves before they drink their lattes (are they lattes?) & speak Roooshian, but when they say Engelsk words—"upright" "Kendall"—they do not have accents. Now I know we have monks on the hill...("Shakespeare") but what would send American boys into the arms of Mother Russia's church? The desire to wear dresses?

I might wish for so singular a fate--like Lady Hester Stanhope in her billowy trousers (and, oh I hope, curly-toed slippers).

This is almost as good as the day the Hasid showed up all alone in La Boheme. That was better because it was the first time & I was so much younger. When was that? 1979, 1983? Of course, he seemed lost & maybe crazy.

Whatever else I was going to say...
I went for two walks & the cold air hurt my sinuses. No cats. Okay, one cat all day. And good ideas high-stepping through my mind like a homecoming parade. No. St. Pat's. Ideas like teen-age girls with fat thighs, satin dresses & tassels on their white boots. That could be. And high school kids marching in dorky hats, making a happy clamor. Fat sheriff posses riding big-haunched horses & clowns with shovels & brooms.
And gone again.

I spoke to a woman who was going to hear Tibetan drums. I wanted to go but with my diseased head, I felt unworthy.

Strange, those bearded monkish guys. I like them. Better than the jittery emaciated guy with the helmet hair. Ordinary madness vs. baroque aspiration. I know which one I'd choose.
15th Starbucks 1/14/01

Something & Misery
Pain? Sin? What else goes? Not mirth or birth or even dearth and certainly no multisyllabics. Even "something" pleases not.
Cold inside & outside my head. And my nose is running for the 4th or 5th night in a row & I don't want to take another antihistamine. I think they make my shoulder worse. But to lie in bed listening to the burbling in my nostrils. Listening to the burble of my breath.

Can you tell I've been rewriting, which makes me sensitive to syllables (I use too many) & gerundives (past continuous?) also too many—those -ing words.
Oh, I started so late, & I started from so low & I am such a slow learner. (Back of hand to forehead: Ahhhh.)

I'm way tired of Connections, and only 1/4 of the way through. I think it could be cut. But I'd like to be writing something brand new. Something I have no inkling of. Inkling. Now that's a wonderful word. That's what I'm up to: inkling.
15th Starbucks 1/15/01

Hubble-Bubble
My nose sounds like a hookah & it has been sounding like one for 6 days. I gave up & bought Nyquil even though last time I took it I had some bad chest pain. My shoulder hurts anyway, and I want to sleep. (I had bad dreams last night, and bad reality when I woke this morning.) But it warmed up 10 or 15 degrees & started to rain.
I did my usual thing, like I always do, and didn't get very far, like I always don't. And then the only mail I got was the light bill. The police came but I didn't talk to them. (I wonder what the guy in #9 is up to.) A woman goes by in a muscle shirt, elbowing into a windbreak, um a fine specimen. I wonder where she's from—the dance studio? I wish my shoulder would clear up, I'm tired of feeling like a cripple. I want to be a fine specimen too.
15th Starbs 1/1/7/01

The Point of What?
Quietly reading. Quietly writing. Dark & cold out—if there is progress (along the orbit), I can't see it. Our progress around the orbit mimics the sun's progress around the ecliptic, isn't that nice?
I see brighter haloes than ever before. Not on saints, either. What, I ask you, what am I to do? Other people survive, even thrive, why not me?
Because I'm writing tripe, that's why. My one & only life & I'm wasting it writing tripe. And I do sort of believe that if your art isn't going to give people shivers 10,000 years from now, then you might as well give yourself over to
over to...over to
But there you have it. I don't have an idea of what I'd give myself over to other than what I do:
feasting? drunkenness? love
· service? Am I forgetting something?
· Duty or gratification.
· Craft.
· A bottle of juice. A flight to the sun.
Those boys.
BM Starbucks 1/18/01

Stateless

Stateless
I should have done something today, at least gone down to Group Health to look for jobs, but I did not. I didn't quite do nothing; I fiddled with my little sonatines (?). I went to the library & fiddled some more. My arm hurt. Quite a lot--though now it doesn't much. I didn't get a job. This means that my financial condition is critical--if I don't work 5 days out of the next 7, or sell writing & get a check... Who would loan me $?
The thing I have to do is remove myself from the situation. Enter the non-being state. The door only swings one way, and I don't know where to score. I still expect--half expect, I know better, but I can't give up—some irruption of deus (ex machina) (ex cathedra) (ex nihil) or (ab ovo) — I don't care.

Other people have succeeded, even as writers, others as worthy (& therefore unlikely) as I, so why not me?
Why fucking not me?
It's as if failure is embedded in my DNA. All those know-their-place Norwegians. Then under-achiever Grandma S.
So am I a genius, or (/and) am I a schmuck?

Nothing changes; I dare hope my cold is getting better despite lack of clear progress. Nose still running.

In order to get my nodule taken care of by the NIH, I'd have to go to Maryland.
BM Starbucks 1/19/01

Sans peur, sans espoir
Well, maybe a tiny bit of peur, realistic, and a smidgen of espoir, because, well, because we must. I'm not that strong. Though I'm trying. Strength through soy.

I could, I suppose drag myself through a month, year, decade of filthy drudgery.
Except that I've left it too long. I've ended up on my little bit of eroding cliff, grabbing at the wild strawberry vines and....
Yes, those are alligators down there.
Hang on. Why? Umm

I asked for a sign. I got two rejections. I don't just find the natural world impenetrable, but people everywhere as well.
Am I turning into an alien? Turning??
I'm revolting. I am.
B.M. Starbuck's 1/20/01

One Candlepower
A winter Sunday: sky fuzzy gray like a lambs wool sweater. Dropping low. The view from my front window sans the 3 towers. It never got light. I finished (re)reading Princess Missy's war. I wasn't happy. Partly my arm being sore, but mostly waking up from some not-bad dreams—even if the cats hadn't been properly taken care of. (Dingo was there & part of his tail had broken off — a piece of tail?!?), and it meant I had to solve these problems. Some of the cats were 'Mas-cats. And I was young & attractive & money wasn't a problem.
Then I woke up: I was old & ugly & my arm hurt.. I only have $250 & no Likely Prospects.

I told Lee that he had to help me come up with a boffo idea, but does he? Something quick n easy to write & an instant money-maker. What does everybody Love?
15th Starbucks 1/21/01

What Does Everybody Love?
Sugar
Sunshine
Love & Glory
A good night's sleep.

I'm not sure about Love & Glory, though I expect that nobody hates them. As for all the other bonuses (boni?), different bonbons for different gens. I think many, if not most, folks like puzzles or mysteries solved. But that's where the conflict comes in. Because getting rich or well is better than simply being rich or well.
Improvement. Put that on the list.

Pretty pictures, violence—we'll never please the men & the women...all together.
But it's not right to dichotomize—that's the trouble with looking for a formula. Well, there's the love at war story: Casablanca.

No mail, no phone call. I didn't go downtown. Maybe tomorrow?
BM Starbucks 1/22/01

Trying to Cling
I try to cling to the remnants of my self-control. I wish to keep my determination solid. Or fluid but contained.
I hate getting nervous & upset. It's just my body reacting. Overreacting. Who or what threatens me?
My sense of failure. My boredom with ordinary people and ordinary life. I can appreciate ordinary people's secret or at least subtle greatness, but not enough to hang around with them all day. Anne W. is right though--in her Walter Mitty suggestions. There are possibilities I haven't tried. (Though I don't believe bartender is something I should try.)
What I am good at. What I am...
What am I good at? Sarcasm. Something unsuspected from time to time. Pithy wit. Nonsense. Vituperation. Well, criticism.
Procrastination becomes a choice in itself. Should I steel my will? I mean my Won't. Stiffen my backbone till it breaks?
Remember all the times I called Tomas and he wouldn't come? How many times did he call me when I wouldn't?
BM Starbucks 1/23/01

Yeah, Who's a Fool?

Yeah, Who's a Fool?
Stale cake is better than no cake at all. Yes or no?
Like, bad ideas are better than none.
That Lee...
I walk into the Starbucks & say to him, "What would you do if you were me?"
and he says, "I'd shoot ME." And he's not smiling, but it's his Monday.
He's lying.

Next to me, 2 guys with accents argue about the housework & cooking. I can't place the white guy's accent. He looks...young. But maybe Czech? Russian? Are they a couple or just roommates? Guys are so lame. Young guys. Well, some girls too.
The fulla shit gene just expresses itself differently in the two (or is it four, or five?) sexes.
The young guys play with their cell phones. I don't think it's lekking, except of the most general (knee-jerk) kind. I'm the only female in the vicinity & too old to elicit lekking behavior. Anyway, I think they are gayboys.
I can't tell when they are that young—the styles change. One is wearing a ski-hat and the other has plaid pants & a backward baseball hat.

Yesterday I was in such a bad mood. But today the sun came out & I was happy. Nothing good has happened & I'm $10 poorer & still have no prospects. Still. If I'm going to commit myself to a Solution, I have to do it soon. I'm at the point of having to dig the dollar bills out from under my chest of drawers.

I wish I could like it here. I wonder if I could like it anywhere.
B.M.*bucks 1/25/01

Either Way
It could go either way, only knowing me, it will undoubtedly go That Way. But you know what I always say, either way, it’s going to be fine.
Only I need to go buy that gun right now. Maybe tomorrow I’ll go shopping. If I could count on getting my tax refund soon.
(I had $15 under the bureau. No mail)
Do I feel vindictive? Sure. I just wish I didn’t have to spend so much money just to escape. Or I wish I had enough that it wouldn’t matter.
Yeah, well, it’s too bad I don’t have a car and a garage to park it in.

I went to Group Health today. Now that everything is on the web, it’s impossible to find a job—all over the state of Washington. Feature that. Impossible for me anyway. So, I dropped my resume off at Park & Recs, which is right across the street from GH & I’m sure it was just my imagination that the H.R. guy thought I was Vaguely Suspect & a possible undesirable alien.
(No argument there.)
Still, it was a sunny, mild day, the kind that’s bound to lead to energy shortages, but not in this kid. I marched down Denny & I marched back up. I saw some skateboarder kids with a wrinkly dog & I thought, “Jesus, I’m sick of face jewelry.”
BM Starbucks 1/26/01

Impingement
Even as reality keeps impinging on my enjoyment, my own spurry bones seem to be impinging on my joint space. Acromion. Greek pinchbeck styling defect. Excuse me, engineering defect.
But I suppose there's some trade off. Maybe when I was young (oh, when I was young), I could reach farther? Or do something better—jumping jacks perhaps. And now, and now. Look at me, I can't unhook my bra.
I'd gladly fall down dead, if only I knew how.
On the whole though, I feel good. Of course I feel good. I haven't gone to some shit-sucking, soul-crushing, brain-macerating, time-wasting job for two whole months. And now it's time to pay. I don't want to spend a lot of money on death when I can spend it on life—more fun. (What Goethe didn't say on his death-bed, but what he was probably thinking.) Licht or Lust. Whatever. More sounds good to me. A little more? Yes, please.
Well, suffice to say, I didn't go buy a pistol, not even a small one, and so I still have $200. And no way out except miracle or smash.

I do feel bad when I wake up. I've been sleeping not badly. Warmish but no hot flashes, and so only the painful shoulder to cosset. And haven't I just had wonderful dreams. Cats & lovers. Young lovers (the young "French" feller telling me I looked better than Emmy Lou Harris must have turned my jowly head!) & great fat fluffy cats. My heart.
BM Starbuck's 1/27/01

The Sweet Use of Present Adversity
Namely my poverty, is that I can extract maximum satisfaction from small boons. E.G.? Today I broke into my last $200 & went to buy what I most needed: shampoo, t.p. & cake—& would you believe, they were all on sale. It made me feel that things might be going my way, however briefly.
And with my hair slicked back & the red lipstick on, I got men staring at me. Oh & then Lee gives me my coffee free. But I didn't win the lotto. Also, mom didn't call, which meant I didn't have to prevaricate. I bought a scratch ticket; I hope my luck doesn't peter out (the way it usually does).

A nice walk on a dark Sunday. Heavy cloud cover unraveling in the west like one of my old gray sweaters. And the sun lighting the top stories of the houses in a way that seems (huff puff) almost supernatural. Actually, the bit of lighted cloud in the southwest as I came down Federal looked like lace on an ancient ball gown.
And then I got my money & found everything on sale.
All quiet—half quiet—on Broadway because all the fools were home or in bars watching the Stupor Bowl. Cold though & I just manage to avoid Kay in an ugly hat: she doesn't look around when she walks.
I also gave a crazy guy a bum steer. I bet he called me a bitch when he found out. Well, too bad, that's what he gets. (And what do I get?)
BM Starbuck's 1/28/01

Stubborn

Stubborn
I keep circling the mulberry bush, stopping here, stopping there, hurrying on. I like feeling like I belong here. I like chasing my personal stag. I don't understand why life has gotten so complicated that we all have to tend computers. I don't quite accept that I ought to be just like everybody else—when I cannot. I've tried, it doesn't work.
I also don't understand why nobody has called me from TES.

Odd I come back to my couch & my stack, a lapfull of papers, & I page through. Would it be better if I'd come from Catholic South America & had fabulistic tendencies? Could I do it for Parkland? Yes, if I can feel free to lie—or not free, but if I can coax myself to it—to heighten, embroider. No, it would have to be well-lied. Whopperized. I think of the flatness, the scotchbroom, the off-limits reservation, chain link fences & barbwire. The pig farm & peat bogs & the fact that we girls were discouraged from adventure. We went everywhere important in cars & everything seemed forbidden, everywhere was off limits. Constraints.
I don't know when I filled up with hatred. Now I burn with it.
B.M. Starbucks 1/29/01

Submit
I submit stories & essays & when they bow before the editorial powers that be—what do they get but a kick? One & all.
I submit to my fate. I'll probably get a xeroxed rejection there too—and my named spelled wrong.
I didn't go downtown to price pistols. Well, it was cold & windy & when I actually think about walking into the Central Death Exchange. I can feel my blood pressure rise to a painful level. Instead I went to the grocery store and spent my gun money.
"You spent the gun money? Oh, how could you?"
(JHY would appreciate that, but I won't tell him.)

I did a little work. Very little. I decided that I could hang myself with my pink bathrobe belt. I'll have to check & find out how Michael Hutchence did it. Door knob? I don't have a good beam in my apartment, and I'm not sure I'd trust that door-hook. There is the second floor railing to be sure, but I'm a private kind of guy.

So, I got up feeling shitty & about noon started feeling better & by now I feel like I will triumph—even though nothing has changed since yesterday. I got no mail. I got no job. My shoulder improves not. I dreamed my dad died of a stroke.
However, I finally got my resume emailed to Group Health. But I don't want to work there either.

I am improving "Best Man" all out of countenance, but it still won't sell. I do enjoy making it better. It's like completing a jigsaw puzzle.
BM Starbucks 1/30/01

When Was It Good Here?
When was it good anywhere? This stint is marvelous—but marvelous—in tiny little bites. When I finish a job. When the sun comes out. When the cats come running. But all the succulent little bites are surrounded by recalcitrant aridity. Even here, even in a dump like this, though, I can have a fun time. With all I don’t have, there are always those books. However:
It’s not enough to keep me running up that endless staircase. Nothing comes. No mail. No email. No phone calls. No job. No tax return.
As I come to the end of this portion, I find it harder & harder to make what ("normal") people would consider rational plans. Or to talk about anything after next week. It’s going to sleep I like. If only I could stay. Awake, I get nerve attacks.
BM Starbucks 1/31/01