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For right now I’m in hiding hiberation. I glittered through a handful of holiday parties, dancing with strangers, the ice the ice with heels and a dainty dress. I left my garter belt behind and had to make do. I’ve read a dozen books since last we spoke. I bought blue pumps and my sister called with the best and kindest news I’ve heard in a long time. You laughed at my finest drawings and I’ve listened to new music and gone to the cinema all my by lovely self, brought home the store’s whole stock of soy nog, and missed my people. And had a dozen new nightmares that would certainly wipe you out. I made a blanket in two days and had more than my fair share of winter drinks without any intractable panic attacks. I’ve solved my apartment sofa problem, sewn pillow covers, watched movies, did xmas (yes, mom) alone and dusted. All through.
It’s time for winter to break open into violent and unrelenting snow. Colds more dangerous than this. I am sick of this festering inhabitable Northeast. Please displease me.
Mostly it has been a lot of paralysis. You know I can’t go anywhere unless I plan it and even then it becomes the whole day. I’ll lay still, resting, recovering. Until then.
Last night while I was humming silently and sewing up a cover for my sewing machine, hands and knees: drawing a pattern on my scrubbed floors, someone tried to break into my apartment. He threw his whole bulk against my rattling door and I wondered if I should wait or what. I opened the window to the fire escape and realized there was no one left to call. Later in the bath, I saw something else– bug-like scamper across the periphery. It blossomed into polyps and I let the aura play long enough.
I’m glad I don’t have a photographic memory because I would be mad(der) than this by now.
I have to try not to be so lazy. I can lay still for so long and only get up out of guilt or because my apartment is too sunny. I forget, after a short while, that the rest of you are real.
I saw the movie Juno and briefly judged its hipster excitation too harshly. In the end it is at least a film about a 16 year old who has a baby and isn’t ruined by it. Certainly a step in the right direction. I brought a thermos of tea into the packed theater, ate an apple and handfuls of granola in the dark.
I’m waiting for my grades to go through at midnight so I can see how I’ve done. And I’m thinking of you and your secret blogs, your violent wakefulness, your slenderness, your gauntlets, your desires, the way we have the same voice, the way we met, your bookshelves in Brooklyn, your quilt in Lousiana, your hands– our hands. All of you. It’s been three days since I’ve seen a real live person and that’s all it takes. You are all singing voices and wobbly sliding movie-star voices, text messages. Forget the memories. I don’t have a photographic memory.
Okay. I feel a little guilty reporting this fact to you, public. But it IS available to anyone Googling.
It recently came to my attention (and here I’ll leave the chain of contact out) that Diesel’s new cafe, Bloc 11, is a little more unfortunately named than I had originally thought.
Block 11 was the name of the prison ward at Auschwitz.
This seems particularly dangerous given the extreme likelihood that innocent strangers will search for Block 11 instead of Bloc 11.
I am hoping that, however difficult it might be, the owners will be pursuing a name change. Whoops?
True to form I received a letter “to the parents of [Femmephane]” from the J.Crew ad I call my school on the day after Thanksgiving:
Looking for the best Christmas gift for your graduating student? Want to get him something practical that he’ll really love? Want to get him something he’ll really need after he graduates?
Because it was coming from University himself and not, say, BalfourClassRings– I indulged. These are, after all, the same people who tell me when my classmates die tragically and when they’re retroactively hiking tuition.
What does he, the graduating Tufts student, need need need? A bigger cut of Southampton in the Will? A Hybrid with four-wheel drive for those ski trips when he just didn’t want to borrow the Benz? Perhaps some castration?
Anyhow. The answer: a $318 diploma frame from UniversityFrames.
Included in the envelope was an alarming little notecard, folded in half, which read “A note from mom…” in some gentle Baskerville italics. Inside was a heartwarming anecdote about just how grateful one mom’s daughter had been to be the first of her friends to receive her diploma frame. “It really meant something to her that she was the first person she knew to get one. She had it waiting for graduation day in December!” And I’m excited for her, too.
I also think it’s a nice touch to include “a note from mom…” in a letter addressed to “the parents of,” ensuring that the only students who receive the message are people who don’t have mothers to receive (let alone send) Baskerville Old seasons greetings.