National Book Festival

I found my self frustrated and antsy. All this talking about great books and great ideas made me long more for my bed and the pile of books beside it.

Sunday Mornings

I lie awake, covers tossed to the side, the soft, summer morning coolness refreshing my sleep stuffy skin. Gazing out the window, my minds drifts to the now - no to do lists, no memories, no daydreams. Just now. I examine the sunrise, waking up the brick buildings across the courtyard, creating dramatic shadows under ledges. One bird's song becomes the soundtrack to my early morning revelry.

This summer is effing melting my brain.

I typed the last paragraph of the previous post out of order. I am not sure how I did that and I promise I re-read my posts a gazillion times because I am a terrible speller.

I also cannot stop: cursing, using non-culturally appropriate slang, cheking my twitter, and wearing the same blue polo like everyday. Whatever on the blue polo because it has a cute little scooped neck and capped sleeves. I also have it in brown but only wear that on special days.

Cavaties of the Brain

I read so much trash at the beach that I cannot seem to focus on anything of real value. This is not just reflected on my book reading, but also my newspaper, magazine, and blog reading. I could not even read the first two paragraphs on a Post article about the new baseball stadium. I should be all about this article. I should be speed reading it, running to the computer, reading what every blogger says about my new slice of heaven, and then, naturally, reading recently written blogs and articles about my baseball boyfriend.

Instead, I read my favorite comic, scanned the headlines, and ran to the computer to re-read my favorite posts on dfa. I have about the self control of a small child who just discovered m&ms. And the attention span as I cannot seem to concentrate on this post because of the pull of the Internet. Maybe dfa posted again? Have I read all the gawker comments? When was the last time I checked gofugyourself?

Proof that this cotton candy reading diet is zapping me: I am loving my new David Sedaris(normal) but am mentally referring it as my intellectual reading of the week (almost normal), and justifying reading of a Sedaris passage to "research" the Silverman-Kimmel split (totally crazy).

First Love

When we came to her favorite page, she took the open book and squeezed it tight against her body. The pages of the book were the arms of a good friend.

The many blues of a thunderstorm.

I love the sound of weather, the patter of sleet, the drive of rain, the quiet whooshes of wind bursts. Body curling among blankets and books, face pressing against cold glass, legs stepping from the dry bubble of an umbrella, listening, I immerse myself in the simple rhythms and harmonies of its patterns. I let it flow through me, around me, circling my body as if I am a rock in its a stream. Submerging me - wet and cold; hot then warm; forceful but soft.

8 More Days

Sigh loudly, look longingly. The piles of to-reads long ago over ran my night stand. Their stacks line my floor in neat rows, like cars in a parking lot, waiting to be picked up by their loving owner. And this loving owner is not at the opera, or a 4 course - 4 star meal, but feasting upon the dry bones of grad school articles and final projects.

One more week, I whisper to them. Then we will joy ride again.

Avoiding my bookclub book, as usual

I really hate the main character. The title was a heads up that I ignored. However, the chapters were short and the cover was of a cheap, pliable material. Perfect for subway reading and purse stuffing.

This happened many months ago, and yesterday.

I left either too early or too late. Either way, I was tense. My cotton shirt was soaked through by the first stop light. At 15 minutes till, my shirt still moist but my face radiating from a sweat facial, I thought I could make it. I bopped to my music and coasted along. All was ok for 2 minutes.



At 13 minutes till, my confidence melted as I willed my phone to dial itself, speak, and inform all parties that I would be 25 minutes late. I held back, as 1 minute later, at 12 till, I was going to be early. Fear of awkward standing around, waiting, setting off another round of nervous sweating.

By 10 minutes till, fear and crazy thoughts completely took over. I oscillated from fear of being late to fear of being early so quickly that I considered driving myself to the closest psych ward. I would not pass go, I would wear only white, I would never be late or early again.

All forgotten at 8 minutes. A pretty bend in the road, a shimmering of early spring leaves, I forgot my paranoia as the charm of a low key Saturday morning took over.

5 minutes till, stuck at a light, my anxiety rose in my throat. I was so close, and so far. My fingers fiddled with my phone. I reached to turn off the radio, to warn all that I will be embarrassingly late, but this song needed to be heard.

The light turns green. I arrive. I am late; I am early. I am ok.

Best use of the colon in a drunk email ever.

"Guys: confession."



Genius of this email is also known to conduct very lengthy and well thought out debates about deep and important topics, all while pounding car bombs.

Shoes

The walk turned into a carry. But who could blame her, she has brand new walking shoes - smart looking mary janes. She couldn't both walk and admire her fashionable toesies. It is just too much to ask from a fashion conscious one year old.

**picture to come.

Pigs and Babies

Squirm makes me instantly think of a pig or a baby. Not fat oinkers or wrinkled prunes passing as pigs and babies, but soft, fuzzy, piggies and babies. They must be scrunching their noses, squealing, and wiggling their rears in order to escape from your grasp. Woman! They shout in piggie-baby talk, I want to make a mess and I want to make a mess now!

Model Library Patron Movie Scene

Scene: Local Regional Library.

Players: Angry looking middle aged librarian, puckered lips a must; and serious, but pleasant, library patron.

Model Patron, handing Annie Dillards' An American Childhood to librarian: I would also like to renew a copy of Graham Greene short stories I have checked out.

Librarian, anger seemingly melting away as takes books: I would be delighted to!

MP: Oh dear! I think I forgot to return a vhs of "Brideshead Revisited." Will you please check that for me?

L: Certainly. (pause) No, the Graham Greene is the only item not returned. I have renewed it for you. Have a pleasant day. (Handing books to LP.)

MP: You do the same. Thank you.

L: No. Thank you.

"you know my theory about that store."

"no."

"i think the designers were drunk, in their grandma's attic, with a glue gun. "

"true."

"but i still love it."

"true."

We are also singing.

I must not be turning the pages fast enough. I do like to overly savor a book's language; she must be reading for plot, only.

Utterly Wretched

I am freezing yet covered in sweat. Sweat has soaked through my pajamas, my sweatshirt, and dampened my sheets. Which, in my finicky mind, Must Be Washed before I fall asleep. My aching joints are not sure if it is necessary. In agreement, my lungs shudder in a series of cough spasms that bring tears to my eyes as well as fluid from my nose and ears. My stomach feels a little left out, so it heaves a bit. And I run to the bathroom. Not to lose my cracker and soup lunch, but to spit out the piece of my lung that is choking me.

I pass out in my bathroom and wonder when this misery will end.

The front passenger side door of my car has OCD. Specifically, the lock will only work after an elaborate and ritualistic turning of the key. Left, Left, Right, Left. A process repeated every cold morning, in every abandoned parking lot, on every dark evening.

I am not sure if this is a mechanical problem or a character trait reserved just for me. No car psychologist has been called. My father - the car nurse - has his own diagnosis. He has yet to examine the lock but he knows: it is not the car that is crazy, but the driver. The driver, he informs me, may need mechanical as well as emotional support. He has anecdotal evidence of the symptoms: driver calling crying because lost coming home from sister's; driver calling crying because of a flat tire; driver calling crying because she was hungry. He went on, but driver stopped listening. She was crying.

Crying because her car has OCD and there is no car Zoloft available in the states.

Busted

"Watching your hair in the mirror is not exercise."

"I am stretching! It is very important to have correct form when you are stretching. The mirror helps with that."

"Right."

Now my library is complete.

Because I am not alone.

Contentment

A nap of 20 minutes lasted 120. I woke up squinty eyed, confused, and with my skirt on backwards. Drool matted my hair to my face. I was a set of wrinkles: face wrinkles, shirt wrinkles, and worry wrinkles. I had articles to read! Literary letters to write! Bathrooms to clean! However, I don't move from my encasement of sheet, blanket, and down comforter. I turn over and watch the fading light from my window.

I could be there now,
snuggled with content,
if not for the smell of bacon. *


*so aware of the extra syllable. it is killing me.