1. T thinks everyone’s fucked up because of the turbulent political situation in the US. All the showbiz and terror, uncertainty, hopelessness, and expectation. He wants it to be a month from now when we’ll all know a little more. Right now everyone’s in deep shit. Love, Money, Work, Love, Sex, Race, School, Health, Drugs, New York. Everything but the fucking, unscathed, Sox. In a month he will have had a birthday and the rest of us will have weathered an election. Maybe also a successful or unsuccessful assassination attempt if the election goes well. What cheer. He wore a red sweater over the whole ensemble and when people stared we decided it was because he was eating whipped cream off a milky brown coffee drink with the handle of a fork. I jabbed the knife in.
2. After you told me this, I wrote it down: “___ called me at 10 am. She was drunk.” It’s accumulated a row of little x’s to the right and tipping. One for every time I’ve heard it since: xxxx.
3. This week, after a battery of additional blood tests: an upper GI series and an ultrasound. I’d be more comfortable if my doctor would call it a sonogram because it sounds less like an extreme sport and more like a song.
4. At my new old job my co-worker told me that she liked Iris Murdoch despite the fact that she had never read any of her novels. It was just the writer’s character in the film Iris that had wooed her. (An alright okay alright okay alright film. Or, as she put it, “pretty great for something mediocre.”) I could not agree more with my new new coworker boss. There are all those parts where she rides through the leaves on her three speed. My coworker mimes a tear.
5. I have “Unpretty” stuck in my head. It hasn’t been stuck in my head since J’s sub-horrific shower in pvd when everything was still green. Then: I sang it. Now: I’m somewhat glad it’s replaced “Onward Christian Soldier.” Wait. Shit. Oops. I did it again. nm.
6. On a morning walk I started a story about the dirt and brown meadow my father bought so many years ago but the block was so yellow that we had to stop to talk about how yellow. A yellow store and a yellow wall and a yellow tree. About a neighboring tree JRL, my new boyfriend, said: That tree did not get the memo about turning yellow, it has turned brown and died. True.
I have run right out of numbers. I expected to get to six and move to seven but something broke. Good thing I only care about poetry now and not numbers. Wait. Strike that, reverse it. Because I only care about poetry. Three weeks ago I made a soup for everyone. T and L and A and divFriend and JRL and his identical twin. It was one of so many other things that it didn’t get finished and three days ago it was still in my fridge and I decided that I wasn’t taking the pot-cleaning job seriously enough. I took the soup out of my fridge and cluttered my kitchen table with it. I didn’t want to be Too serious about it, after all. Each day it did not smell but the point was that I was supposed to understand how serious rotting food was and take a few minutes to clean it out. I didn’t. Tonight in the middle of three hard conversations and one hard perceived-evasion I moved to do the responsible thing. The soup had separated into a light beige layer of oily velour over wretched dirty water and then all the solid parts below. I didn’t notice any of this at first– transfixed as I was by the tri-cornered carnelian leaf of mold shuddering along the upper left hand edge.
In a month. I’ll sneeze and all of this will come tumbling down.