Bloody your hands on a cactus tree. Wipe it on your dress and send it to me.

Well, I didn't go that far, but I did wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts today. I can't sleep lately and this morning decided to just get out of bed at 5:30. I wasn't going off with Morpheus and everyone knew it. I got up and had the first cup of coffee I've had in a week. I ate a plum while it was brewing. I rustled up Alex and we shared the coffee ritual, morning for me and afternoon lunchtime for him. I don't think he had a plum, probably something Fh-rennch.

I got an early start on the chores du jour. I weeded the garden. I dug up some earth and moved it to a spot that needed it more. I mowed the lawn. Then, I watered everything. As I stood watering, I realized that watering is one of my most favorite things to do right now. Last night, I was reading to Alex from The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh. He'd chatted me through doing the terrible pile of dishes in my sink a little earlier and now he was going to sleep. He's more advanced with mindfulness than me. Never mind, I was reading the first chapter which talks about the "essential discipline," best illustrated through the simple: "When washing the dishes, wash the dishes." The thing that struck me was that he said by rushing through one thing to get it finished and move on to the next or being preoccupied with something other than what you're doing, you're not experiencing life, because you are not experiencing that moment. He said in those instances, we are living the past or the future. Not in the moment. I'm sure my explication is sloppy but, well, I kind of saw what he meant.

I'm in therapy yet again and the new therapist asked me about my spirituality or religion. I tried to come up with something quick-like. My eyes darted about the room. I told her, well, I've been reading about mindfulness lately (meaning last year). She liked that and decided that one path out of my own confused and clumsy approach to life would be through the practice of mindfulness. One thing I noticed when reading aloud from the book last night was that mindful people can repeat the same words in sentences a lot and nobody says anything bad about them.

Today, when I was watering, I was watering. It's easy to do with that task. The sun was shining, I have my new nozzle, the plants were all "Hey! Cool. And we mean that literally!" I felt good about what I was doing and decided to just water. I mean, I think you're allowed to think other thoughts like, "Oh, that flower is starting to bloom" while you are watering. Or at least I hope so. I think it's possible, when admiring the flower, to admire the flower while watering the grass, all mindful and such. I had a long day ahead of me, but I stayed focused on the gift of water for the moment. It was pleasant. I enjoyed misting the plants especially.

Then I tried to practice mindfulness with everything I did: spray painting a wicker ottoman, talking to my neighbor about tools, scraping the blistered paint from my house, applying primer to the bare spots, eating a pastrami sandwich. (In this town, there is a loud horn that goes off at noon, so I always know it's lunch time. It's old-fashioned and wonderful, the horn.) I practiced mindfulness pretty well, I must say, although the lure of the computer was tugging from time to time. I finished at 3ish and met Alex back online. We were interrupted by a man coming around to look at a print I am trying to sell so I can buy more paint. He didn't like it. He said the woman, posing nude for Modigliani, was beautiful but her eyes were empty. He mentioned "the window to the soul," even. I was disappointed. We'll meet again though, as he invited me to coffee. He's also from Seattle. I may have a friend.

After that I stopped practicing mindfulness. I fretted about time wasted; I thought about money lost; while talking to Alex I was not talking to Alex. I was talking to myself, I guess. Old habits. We got back on track after a break, and I read from Franny and Zooey, one of my favorite books and one that led me to the poet Issa, I believe. He fell asleep. I tinkered with my malfunctioning laptop and then made dinner. I tried not to rush dinner and afterwards, I enjoyed washing the dishes though mostly because there were only seven of them from the day. After a little bit, I remembered the ice cream sandwiches I bought today. They were on sale, and a brand I didn't know, but I figured what the hell. It's almost impossible to make a bad ice cream sandwich. Nobody cares if it's Häagen-Dazs ice cream in a sandwich. They really just care about the mush of the sandwich cookie part again their fingers and the melding of flavors--graham crackery chocolately cookie and semi-soft vanilla ice cream. I was right, Blue Bunny ice cream sandwiches are delicious. And I returned to mindfulness with mine. I was all about the sandwich. I think I may have to practice mindfulness a little more tonight before I go to bed.

And nah, that's the Pixies, not me. They're so dramatic!

For here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.

It's late. I've been watching the carnivorous television show Mad Men for a couple of hours, in between moving around furniture and trying things on for size. "For size" is literal, my house is 360 square feet and every inch counts. You know how I feel about the inches.

For some reason, I got sad about poor people tonight. It's funny cos I'm one of them. But I was remembering how I feel (or used to feel) when I'm in line behind someone buying just a can of chili and a box of Saltine crackers at the store. (Oddly, this feeling often prevents me, myself, from buying Top Ramen noodles when I might really be craving them.) It's a paternalistic emotion, some would say. But I reckon that feeling is more maternalistic than anything else. And don't call me sexist.

When I went to the store tonight, I decided I couldn't afford a pint of good ice cream. I regret that decision. I want that ice cream muchly. I do not even care what flavor. I regret not buying it like I regret trying to shave my legs at 11 years old; like I regret trying to use that brick to hold down our "diving board" when I was five. Even, like I regret not stopping for that hitchhiker back in the late 90s. Now? It's all I can think of, the ice cream. Let's call it sacrifice and then raise it. By a dollop of whipped cream and two tablespoons of chocolate syrup.

There was a paragraph here that I wrote and lost. I can't be bothered to rewrite it. It involved the Teamsters, my decent health insurance growing up, the hoodlums that use to run the organization, working people undervalued, and the price of food. You know, shit like that. What it said was that I am in favor of unions. What it said is that I can thank my teeth to the Teamsters. My dad got paid a living wage. And what it said was "Yeah, those Teamsters got all Mafia up in this bitch," or as someone I know likes to say, "power corrupts." But unions were formed so that working (class) people weren't screwed. So they also didn't have to shop at the company store nor find themselves homeless as a result of a home mortgage crisis. That their kids didn't go off to war cos it was a job and MacDonald's wasn't hiring.

Fuck. I lost more than two paragraphs. The universe at work, I'm sure. It sneaks up from behind me at times, particularly when I'm putting on the high hat. God. What an editor.

Reader? I'm poor and prideful. Not the best combination. Tomorrow I've got some money on my side to buy food and coffee and Top Ramen. The last time I shopped, when I was clearly surprised by how much I spent, the girl said "That's what happens when you buy brand names." I was like, "Uh, this is what you consider a brand name? Hunts?" Sheesh. So, until I sell my novel about the adventures of two cats in a dysfunctional household, it is Western Family for this western famly. It's either that or dumpster diving. And yeah, my ass looks fat in that dumpster.

The photo is, of course, by Dorothea Lange. WPA and all. I almost took a house near the Grand Coulee Dam, built for workers in the 1930s. It was beautiful and perched just right to see the lake created. The foundation of the house, however was rotting away. A metaphor? Or just a shitty place to buy?

And nah, that's not me, that's Rainier Maria Rilke, a deep fellow, I heard. And this? This is a prelude to Pasternak, who speaks beautiful paragraphs about Rilke. Boris was an efficient writer and, you'll see, eloquent.

I'm going to heaven in a ground pea shell.

I've been outside watering my yard. I have to admit it's a relaxing chore, standing in my yellow monkey pajamas, spraying a shower of water over good stuff what grows on the ground. It's just water, coming out of an old green hose. I should confide that I bought myself a new nozzle at the weekend. The other one was leaking and getting me wetter than the grass. It's an $11.49 version of a new party dress. And goddamn if I don't love it.

I don't have any money. I've mentioned that, yeah? A few weeks ago, I applied for a job working a couple of nights a week in the grocery store. I didn't get the job. I didn't even get an interview. I see the manager hired her boyfriend. They were in the newspaper the other week, in the police blotter, after some hullaballoo at their house, a few doors away from mine. I had thought I was a shoo in, but apparently they went with someone with a little more domestic violence experience. If I asked you to be a reference, you can stand down.

I took a nap tonight. It wasn't a luxury. I haven't slept in a couple of nights. Look down there. The bare bulb? Still burning. It's symbolic, or just fucking ugly. I can't bring myself to hang up some old raggedy ass dark blanket by pushpins. I have pretty sheers and that's the way it's going to be, buster. My neighbor hasn't been home now in at least a day and a half. Her son-in-law, meaning the 26-year-old boy who knocked up her 18-year-old daughter, was walking the dog. I asked if she was coming home. He said no. I said, I can't sleep with the light on, is there any way you can leave it off? Apparently not. He wants people to think someone is there, he said. I was going to suggest they water the lawn once in awhile, but for some people, nothing screams Home, Sweet Home like a bare bulb and some shitty brown grass.

My 80-year-old neighbor, Herb, must have seen some activity down here, because he was tapping on the door post-haste. He brought me "Mr. Blister." Seriously, that's its name. It's some heater thing that warms up the glazing compound one uses when replacing panes of glass, which is one of my projects. It's called "Mr. Blister," Electric Paint Remover. "Mr. Blister" is old and has one of those cords that used to light on fire. You know, stripe-y? I can also use it to take off difficult blistered paint. Let me tell you this: it was made in America. In Plainville, Connecticut, to be specific. Some people know I have a fondness for Connecticut. Cos of the drum kits. And the power tools. I want to play with Mr. Blister. Would it be really bad if I went outside now?

Herb drives around town in a golf cart. He just repainted it. It's fuel efficient. The impregnating boy drives a big black truck from his house to my neighbor's. They live precisely four and a half houses away. I am sorry not to have pity on people who drive; I do admit I am hoping they start having some common sense when it comes to wasting fossil fuels. (God fucking dammit stop driving every minute.) This is easy to say because I cannot afford a car or insurance or gas. I never have been fluid in this regard. And? The last car I had I burned the engine cos I never checked the oil; it was a 1972 Volkswagen.

I've been watching Mad Men on recommendation from a friend. I think he was in advertising once. If you ask me, it's kind of crap. Throw a bunch of one-liners at three martini lunches and put a tight dress on the girl and call it a night. Nice work if you can get it. And if you get it? Won't you Western Union me $150? Baby wants a t-bone and some chives on her taters. And by taters, I mean taters.

I don't know about this political stuff. Four years ago, I decided to take a long nap. It's hard for me to say more than that about the state of the world. It really is. What's there to do, short of grabbing a sharp machete and a really good bean burrito? Here's a secret: I was a big Lord of the Rings (movie) fan. It was a surprise to me, too, believe me. Not to sound gay, but that heroic shit inspired me. Inspired me to get more popcorn, it's true, but it was organic popcorn. In the movie, they said "This is a good day to die!" and they didn't mean, "Let's die for oil and then the rest of us go back to our hovels with one leg and a can of Diet Pepsi! We can drink vodka and Red Bull from the first to the fifth!" I honestly don't know if there is any solution or solution or, um, solution to try to combat these evils. It doesn't seem like it to me. I don't really believe in evil. I believe in horrible. And Clorox Wipes. More on that later.

I'm not here in this lickle town to skulk and yearn for days of yore and justice. I'm here cos I kept getting fired and evicted and my mom bought me a house she could afford. And because sometimes, it feels like the only thing I can do is water my plants and pitchfork some steer manure when I'm feeling wealthy. Me, the water, and the Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

And nah, that's not me. That's Mary Lou Lord. I heard she even pawned her old milk cow. Damned Freddie Mac!

This is not a joke so please stop smiling.

It's 3 am and I can't sleep. It doesn't help that my semi-white trash neighbor often leaves her porch light on and the naked bulb shines right into my window, illuminating the entire little house. No, that doesn't help at all. I also should not have watched a bunch of Dick Cheney YouTube videos before retiring.

Any excuse for cocoa, I say, cos I'm a mug half full kind of girl.

My neighbor to the semi-east of me (this town is not on a NS/EW grid and I find it maddening)--you may remember her as "Mags" from an earlier post--has the most horrible screeching voice and reminds me of the Wicked Witch of the West. She also claims to speak in tongues. I bring up this up because she and I have a little feud going and something has scared my poor cat, Jonah. I believe she chased him with a broom, babbling like a brook. Yes, that's how bored and paranoid I am. The feud mostly exists in her head; she seems borderline bi-polar and believe me, I know my mental disorders. Jonah has been hiding in the closet for five days and has only recently joined the rest of the family in the "big room." This sounds ridiculous, but yesterday I kept going over to him and petting him and saying, in all sincerity, "Oh, Jonah. I love you so much. I'm so glad you came out of the closet." And then, of course, I giggle, imagining myself saying that to a person who might be my child. And I feel very much like a progressive parent. I've obviously watched too many Lifetime™ movies. And yeah. It's all about me.

Yesterday, I mowed my 80-year-old neighbors' lawn using their electric push mower. I mowed it last week too, but yesterday it felt like I was pushing around a red elephant with its heels dug into the ground. And the heat. Oy! The heat! Herb likes to supervise the mowing. I feel like a teenager when he says, "Watch the wire, yes, that's the trick, keep it behind you" or trails behind me, holding "the wire," otherwise known as the extension cord. He gets tired and sits in one of his yard chairs, sipping Coke or Squirt. I've never known an old person to enjoy soda so much. Of course, it's another one of his endearing qualities. At one point he said, "Oh, and can you help me put a ladder into my truck? And then we need to oil the two chain saws before we use them again and I've got a load of bricks out back that you can take home for the patio you're making and we should probably take some wood to the bin soon and I wonder if you could look at the broken ice maker because you have much smaller hands." I looked at him and asked, rather pathetically, "Today?"

Terry, his wife, gave me some upside down apricot cake with pineapple for sweetener. She said, several times, "I know you're going to like this cake!" I was like, since when don't I like cake? She showed me some Japanese irises that she's going to dig up soon and give to me for next year. Her garden is worth coveting and losing sleep over. She's already given me several things, including my prized delphiniums. My garden is a poor girl's, made of seeds and starts from my mother and from Terry. It's coming along; the seeded plants are starting to raise above 3 inches and it's thrilling.

Good fences make good neighbors. So do chain saws and upside down cake.

There is so much work to be done here that it's overwhelming, and I get depressed about three times a day. That I can actually point out three times that I am depressed is an improvement over the former state of things back in the city when I could maybe find a few hours here and there when I wasn't depressed. It's like Bizarro world, everything is opposite. At my parents' house my misery was, happily, fodder for blog posts. (Alex might disagree about the "happily" part as he had to coax the funny out of the scenarios.) Anyway, I'm almost done whitewashing and finishing the floors and I've started to scrape the bubbled paint off of the exterior of the house and I'm midway through my ridiculous though valiant attempt to make a patio out of dirt and salvaged bricks. In between, I stop to smell the flowers and check my cats for ticks.

And nah, that's Wilco, not me. Jeff Tweedy is trying to break your heart.

For every calm there is a storm. But it is often out of view.

Tonight I went outside to move my tomato plant from its container into the ground because it's not been doing too well, and I was wondering if maybe it didn't have adequate soil depth for its roots. I said, as I was looking it over, "Couldn't you just come up with one tomato? Just one?" And then I noticed the smallest little green tomato. And another. And then one more. In the life of a gardener, little vegetables or flowers suddenly appearing is a huge deal. I was so damned excited, but it was late in France and there wasn't anyone to tell. My mother didn't answer the telephone, neither did the two friends I called. So, I took a little cam photo of it and posted the announcement to my gardener's profile on the BBC Web site. It's not the same.

I've been reading The City and the House, by Natalia Ginzburg, to Alex through Skype at the end of his long days. It's a beautiful epistolary novel; the letters are exchanged among a small group of Italians -- friends, mostly. According to the Sunday Times (London), "Ginzburg handles the epistolary convention superbly." Yes. She does. The Italians in the book are at times amusingly direct, saying things like: "Disagreeable. You really are disagreeable. You don't want me to bring Ignazio Fegiz to see you, and I won't bring him. So much the worse for you... I'm not coming either. I'm going to Tarquinia with Ignazio Fegiz, to stay with some of his friends who have a beautiful house there." I laugh at these parts.

I'm listening to a song by Damien Rice, called "Delicate." I like it. I've never heard of Damien Rice but that song is on the playlist that Alex made and updates for me. I am a much more sophisticated music listener as a result. Sometimes I use this knowledge to show off a bit and act cool. My octogenerian neighbors don't seem to care whether I'm cool or not, though. So it's kind of a waste. They're more the down-to-earth type. The husband is always stopping by my house to ask me things like "Would you like some fresh apricots?" And when I say I do, he says, "Great. Can you help pick them?" And he wants to leave immediately. I've gotten a little smarter about how to respond, but I did once stand in the bed of his pickup truck in a summer dress, a pitchfork in my hands, pitching large branches into a wood recycling bin. Alex doesn't like that he holds this sway over me. Alex is being silly. The old man and his wife are like surrogate grandparents to me. I'm very fond of them.

I'm waiting for a stick of butter to soften. I'm doing it "naturally" because I always overdo it in the microwave and lose half of the butter to the meltdown. I'm fixing to make banana bread; I wish I'd walked down to the Janzen's house to pick some raspberries for it. Now it's too dark. I have a foolish inclination to take the flashlight and pick some anyway. But I won't. See? I'm becoming sensible. For example, I am sensibly scraping the bubbled paint from my tiny house. I've got to prime it and get it ready for painting as soon as it gets cooler. I've decided I will be painting it what my mother calls taupe and I call cafe au lait. I hate the word taupe. It's as bad as beige. It really is. Someone in my neighborhood apparently has a different plan. Yesterday morning I had a paint color swatch tucked into my screen door. Blue and complementary shades. I thought, "Hmm." This morning? Another swatch of blue and complementary colors. That's weird. Right?

Today, a good friend returned my call of several days ago. He's tried to kill himself a lot with not much real success. A lot is something like 20 times. Apparently he spiffed up his recipe, because he's ruined his kidneys or at least it looks like that. They're doing a biopsy tomorrow. Well, it means dialysis and he's not very old. What I think is this: I'm damned lucky my mother bought me this house. I have been at least temporarily relieved of the day to day stress of trying to survive in the world when I don't much feel like the company. I'm sad for my friend and wish he had taken up my offer to let him sit in my backyard with a glass of iced tea for a few days.

Also? I don't think Nick Cave should sing "Let it Be." It sounds gay. I wonder why it's on my playlist. And nah, that's not me. That's Heartless Bastards. I know why they're on it. And now? I'm blowing a kiss across the ocean as I listen to someone sing "Pink Moon."

It isn't funny if you deconstruct it.

or is it?

"Whatever happened to the white dog poop from the 70s?
It went away but it wasn't ours and it wasn't free.
As the French say, "le blanc doody de la 70s..."

By the way, I HATE those fucking Mustang brothers on Cookie Party!

Foucault has nothing on Sarah Silverman.

Seems I've got to have a change of scene.

Why, hello! I'm moving some of my old posts over here just cos I like them and I don't want them to fade into the lcdset. They will all be pre-move:

In three days, I will be released again into the wild. Or, rather, the tame since I'll be living in a small, conservative town. The only other time in my life when I've lived away from a city, I spent many months in Mexico. That's a different kind of small town. Plus there was plenty of tequila and dancing.

My parents are happy to see me go and vice versa. My nerves are pretty much shot. My dad kind of ignores me unless he's happily stumbled onto something I've done wrong: I don't clean the cat litter often enough; I loaded something into the dishwasher improperly; I splashed coffee on the stairs on my way (desperately) to the shelter of my room. And so on and so forth.

My mother? She alternates from being a-okay to a bitch on wheels. Oh, and she's got that motherly martyr shit down pat. Give the little lady a hand. My mother is very political and listens to talk radio all day long. My dad hates it, so she bought herself some radio headset thing. From about 9 am until 3 pm or so, we are not to disturb her "shows." She listens at breakfast, that is when she isn't talking on the telephone. She tells my dad and me to "talk among yourselves." This would be fine, except every time I attempt to say something to my father, she pulls the headset up and asks, "Wha? What did you say?" I tell her, "I asked dad if he has any big plans for the day." And she says, "Oh." And then puts the fucking earmuffs back on.

I think I've mentioned that my father is very interested in the behavior of wild animals, African tribes, and our lawn. He is apparently uninterested in human behavior, or at least he isn't particularly fascinated with or fond of mine. I ask too many questions, I guess.

Scenario 1:

We are on our way home from shopping for new house crap for me. My dad has stayed in the truck at every store; he got out only to buy gas. My mom is anxious about missing her nap. We have to stop at some lady's house to pick up a loaf of bread she's put out on the porch for my parents, as if they are squirrels. The lady is named Marge. From the back seat I say, "I wonder why she is named Marge..." My mom says, "Uh, because that's what her parents named her. She was named Margaret." I say, "Well, if I were named Margaret, I would go with something sexier, like Maggie. Imagine how different Marge's life would have been if she were a Maggie." My dad said "I like that song 'Maggie May' by Rod Stewart. The problem is you don't hear it much anymore..." I said, "Yeah. I still think Marge is a horrible name." My mom chimed in, "Well, why do you think you are named FailedPromise?" I ignored her.

As we were driving away with the loaf of bread, they started talking about Marge and how she had to go to the doctor today and how did she get there and so forth. Marge needs new glasses. It appears that someone named "Cookie" drove her. I asked if Cookie is a boy or a girl. Cookie is a girl. I wondered aloud about her real name. It was at this point that my dad turned on the radio, probably hoping to hear Rod Stewart.

Scenario 2:

At breakfast today, my dad read a tiny bit in the local newspaper about some woman who was at a casino when her electric wheelchair slammed into the elevator, forcing it open. The woman plunged 30 floors (Update: that's an error. She fell 30 feet). I asked if she lived, laughing a little. Oops. She did. It took 45 minutes for them to get her up. I asked if the wheelchair went haywire or something. My dad said he didn't think it had anything to do with the wheelchair. I asked, "Was she drunk or something? Or angry?" Dad sighed. I asked, "What happened to her, like how many broken bones and so forth?" He said, "It doesn't say anything about that." I asked why the hell they even write articles like that if they don't provide any details. My dad folded up the paper then. I said, "I take it you won't be reading me any more newspaper stories?"

On Friday, I'll be all alone in my teeny studio cottage, reading stories from HuffPo to my cats while I drink coffee. They make a great audience. They enjoy my ad libs, unlike some humans I know.

"I guess I'm here to stay 'til someone comes along and takes my place with a different name, and a different face."

And nah, that's not me, that's Traffic. Alex must like them or something.

I hope you stay in charge of your mouth. I hope you stay in charge of it.

At my other blog in my other life, my physical location is listed as Uzbekistan. I did that because I didn't want anyone to send me emails asking me if I wanted to "make a sex party." After all, nobody actually lives in Uzbekistan, do they?

Well, my shorty moved his profile to Uzbekistan too. He tends to be a copycat. He's also a hep cat, and knows the lowdown on most anything cultural, especially if it's political or involves loud music. I'm in the dark. I look prettier that way. I deliberately avoid the news media, except for the Daily Show and the Colbert Report and watch those only cos they say dirty words and make me giggle. Today he introduced me to the work of some guy who everyone probably already knows: Matt Taibbi. He knew I would like a writer who peppers his paragraphs with words like "horseshit." Yeah. Kind of. We watched him a little on YouTube. He's cute, with a rapidly receding hairline and a gap between his front teeth. Even so, I prefer him on the page where he seems crustier. I like my crust.

I was looking him up on Wikipedia and found out that in 1992, "Taibbi moved to Uzbekistan, but was forced to leave six months later after writing articles critical of the country's president, Islom Karimov." I love that we shared a country, albeit 16 years apart and in my imagination. I think it's super neat that he played professional basketball in Mongolia. And Matt apparently pissed off a ton of people when he wrote "The 52 Funniest Things About the Upcoming Death of the Pope." I can identify. Nobody really appreciates it when I talk about Jesus's big schlong and his gift for getting a party started right.

I haven't written anything since I signed off of that other blog. I sort of wonder if I've run out of steam or material. A state of semi-happiness tends to do that, I've heard. (Note the hedged "semi.") As I was tucking myself up in my bed to read through Skype to Alex, I realized "Wow, my life isn't half bad." I mean, I don't work these days, because of my sundry "medical" conditions related to not wanting to be around people much. I'm sure social security is going to decline my application for early support, but for a few months, I should be okay. I have this house and my little garden. I don't have to worry when the month is approaching its end and rent is due. I've got a guy I'm crazy for who makes me feel loved and safe and special, even though he lives halfway around the world, in Paris.

Loved and safe and special don't come easy for me. And why should they? Many of us have our wagons hitched to a somewhat crappy childhood after all. And life certainly can be nasty, brutal and short as an adult. Well, less of the short and more of the shitty. Times are hard. People pretty much suck. My cat killed a bird. My neighbor is psychotic.

But here I sit, ankles crossed and finger in mouth, trying to think of something funny to write. I have a room of my own, for god's sake. (I wish the 500 pounds would follow.) Cat Power is playing on the radio. The mood is set. And all I have to say is, "Hand me a cup of cocoa and a cookie. I'm happy. "

Weird, huh?

More soon on Matt and the media and the state of this shithole we call America. More on me and my moods and my mouth. I swear I'll stay on topic next time. For reals.

And nah, that's not me. That's The Duke Spirit.

Cookie Party

It's late, I guess, and everyone on my street appears to be asleep. I've been working all day cleaning and sorting my tiny new house. I finally put my work space together. This is the first night in the four and a half weeks since I've moved here that I've been able to sit down and write without the overwhelming sense of shit undone around me. It feels good.

I live in a small, conservative farming community. It's so quiet here that I can hear my cats hunting mice outside. (There is a little part of me that is scared of keeping my doors open in the dark, but it's been so incredibly hot that I've got to risk my future murder for immediate comfort. ) My boy lives in Paris and is abed, snuffling and turning over using his slender hips. As happy as my home is tonight, I want to be there, would give almost anything to be there.

Sometimes I laugh to think of us trying to bridge the distance and culture gap over the internet. It seems almost absurd to try. But it's so goddamn compelling this thing we have. He says we could arc lightning across the country and over the Atlantic if we tried a little harder. Do people seem more interesting when they're far away, I wonder?

The Parisian (who couldn't possibly be more interesting) does loads of his shopping at Picard, which apparently makes pretty good prêt-a-manger meals. He wouldn't admit it, but he likes to casually mention that he's going down to the Arab market for something he knows I can't get here. I like to think of him strolling the streets, selecting fruit from an open market, picking out tartlettes at a boulangerie, taking steps out of the metro two at a time. I think of his head bowed over his laptop at a corner cafe, his bangs a little bit in his eyes, ordering a beer. I'm old fashioned, so I envision him buying an International Herald Tribune from a pretty girl who looks like Jean Seberg. My paper has big ads for farm equipment and articles on livestock. I am suddenly reminded of that 60s television program, Green Acres. I've never actually seen the show but I've heard the theme song. "Darling, I love you but give me Park Avenue!" Hey, I can do Paris in a heartbeat. The question is, can he do Smallsville?

My cookies and tea are gone. It's 10 am in Paris. I'm waiting for my cat to come home. And this post was pretty much just clearing out my head. Sorry, y'all.

This ain't Aruba, bitch.

Last Thursday, I packed up my mules and my mullets and headed east across the mountains to a small farming town where a teeny, tiny cottage awaited my shabby (chic) shit.

You're not in Uzbekistan anymore, Dorothy. Ya feel me?

By Friday evening, I was bubbling with blog post ideas. I was also surrounded by boxes big and small and a veritable buttload of weeds and chipped paint. The posts languished. The posts died. I had a wake. Elizabeth Taylor made an appearance. She was wearing sunglasses. We kissed.When I have trouble in mind, I turn to my rock and cinnamon role model, Alex. My shorty is a versatile so and so. In recent weeks, he's held both my hand and his tongue (his tongue!) through arguments about my parents, my parents, and the high heels and lows of house-hunting. Not to embarrass him, but he's even looked at color swatches and ran price comparisons on washers and dryers. He knows what I mean when I say "celery green."

Back in winter when our love was first brazenly in bloom and the like? He created an internet-driven playlist for me. The songs were initially designed to school me; now they serve as our soundtrack. I don't think it would surprise anyone to learn that the list includes Loretta Lynn singing "Have Mercy" and the Everly Brothers laying it down in "Love Hurts." I'm not sure what he is getting at with "Too Drunk to ***," though. My point is that the songs have knit us together, tighter than my grandmother's perm. He inhabits Nick Cave when I'm in my garden, and the "The happy hooded bluebells bow / and bend their heads all a-down..."

Today I feel like I've emerged victorious from a bloody battle worthy of if not Shakespeare then at least a half season of All in the Family. And you wondered where I got my dimples and dysfunction! But? I'm a gonna focus on the victorious part. You know, where I wear laurels and a bathing suit while I powerwash my new house? It's hot and gorgeous up in here, although today was the first day I needed my air conditioner. Too bad it's in the garage, waiting for the electricity rewire. My lily white is closer to papaver pink. What else? The cats are happy and dusty. I saw a bobcat sunbathing yesterday on the median in front of my house. (Is bobcat one word or two?) Quail tramp up and down the road. You're getting the picture, right? My Town and so forth?

When they were here, my parents met three of my neighbors. They told three friends who told three friends and now everyone knows that Sandi is getting divorced, has two children and already has a boyfriend; Herb and Terry are Democrats and gardeners and Margaret is c-r-a-z-y.

I've privately nicknamed her Mags. She's 74 years old, a widow who loves her Lord. I'm not sure if she means in the biblical sense, because we haven't discussed it that thoroughly (I haven't introduced my theories on Jesus's legendary schlong and his proclivity for the grape.) She stopped by Saturday night to invite me to church the following day. I asked her what it would be like. I inquired after snakes and speaking in tongues. I was joking. She wasn't. She told me she speaks in tongues but only to her lord. (Is "Lord" capitalized in this instance?)

FYI: I spent most of Sunday morning in bed, in a slink-like skulky fashion. You know me: Feign illness rather than bake the cookies I promised my niece. Talk about bunk!

O! My heart attack just reminded me: Sandi has a cockatoo and a Rottweiler. I know it's a Rottweiler; I think it's a cockatoo. What kind of bird shrieks in the most alarming and heinous way? Whatever it is, yeah. She has one of those.This town is deserted yet still charming. It's my own Private Idaho--nirvana for a melancholy agoraphobic who suffers from flights of nostalgic fancy, not to mention cravings for soda jerks. There is an awesome 1950s-era sign in front of one of the bars, an eight lane bowling alley, and a movie theater that seats 400 and only has one screen. The liquor store shares its space with a quilting shop. I'm not sure what the owner would think of a single girl buying a bottle of vodka. I'm not sure I care. The library is cool and lovely. And by cool I mean, it has air conditioning and people have to be quiet.

I think it's going to take me two weeks to get a vegetable garden in place. I think I may have Lyme's disease. I think I have the kind of sunstroke reserved for hyperchondriacs. I think. Well, I think this ain't Paris. But it'll do.

And nah, that's not me. That's Detective William "Bunk" Moreland. I have three more episodes of The Wire left. And then it's all over. Sheee-it!

Read me the letter, baby. Do not leave out the words.

"Stories and cigarettes ruined lives of lesser girls, and I wanna know, 'cause I want you to know."

Here I sit in a Tully's coffeehouse in downtown Seattle, waiting for the Rem Koolhaas-designed library (look at the pretty picture) to open and then take a jaunt over to Eastlake to get my two laptops restored to their former glory. I'm hard as hell on these poor machines; I've got to replace a keyboard and CD/DVD drive in one and an LCD screen in another. Here's a tip from the clumsy to the clumsy: Don't set your laptop in a perilous place, and if you do and it falls? Don't grab desperately at the monitor. It will seriously screw up your day.

Since March, when I moved out of my flat, I've been hanging in places remote to the city--even when I was less than three miles from the downtown core, I pretty much stayed in the attic bedroom my friend let me occupy for the six weeks before I moved in with my parents. I was tired of the city and now I am remembering why. There are two sort of business-y, hipster-cool guys with product-smeared hair sitting over at the next table and they are talking loudly about their condos, women, cars, and how young people say they look. I'm a little nauseated by the whole thing.

Am I intolerant? Many would say yes. But those creeps don't know what they're talking about! (God, now I know his name is Joey, because he's recounting a story about how he was trying to leave a club but nobody would let him go: "C'mon, Joey! Get back here, Joey! There isn't a party without you, Joey!") I suspect that my basic problem is that I really don't like people. They annoy me. I wish they would stop talking. Their coffee orders are astoundingly self-centered. "Yes, Give me a vanilla soy no-fat double half-decaf mocha with whip, not too hot." They pay for the complicated beverage with a credit card, which doesn't go through the first two times. They get a cell phone call while waiting to sign the receipt. They talk loudly and laugh boisterously at banal corporate jokes.

Let me be a bit clearer: I hate people. Well, except for you and you and you and you--over there, in the Levis and black t-shirt, making me a drip coffee with cream. And my family. I don't hate them, I just prefer to keep our time together short and sweet. The drive-by get-together, bookended with important errands that cannot wait.

I was born in Seattle, and I know the city like the back of my hand. I drove a cab here and lived in loads of neighborhoods. Plus, I've been fired from so many temporary jobs in the last couple of years that I could sit here looking out the window and say, "Yeah, I worked in that building, and that one over there, and the Rainier Tower and to the west, I worked in the WaMu tower and then up 4th where I worked at City Hall..." and so on and so forth until the person across the table from me lapses into a coma.

I love this city, but mostly I love this city 10-15 years ago. I loved Ernie Steele's dive bar all smoky and boozy with ripped red vinyl booths, half-baked waitresses and awesome greasy breakfasts. I loved Steve's Grill, on 5th Avenue, open all night--the nice Greek lady would recommend a good meal for the middle of the night. Au revoir to the Doghouse with its grouchy-ass middle-aged waitresses and the guys from rock bands slumped in their seats, trying like they were avoiding the fans and paparazzi. I loved it when Linda's was the cool bar for beer and shooting stick. I miss Moe's. I don't like NuMo's. What this means: I also hate change, and I'm getting old.

I'm moving away from Seattle in two weeks. I'm taking a tiny cottage in a small town in Eastern Washington where the population is largely Republican and mostly in their late 40s. I will scare them with what I prefer to call my "quirkiness." I rode over there a couple of weeks ago, househunting with my mother, her friend--our real estate agent--and the friend/agent's husband. The agent is hard of hearing and she and my mom love to talk. Consequently, I sat in the front seat shouting, "She SAID..." for about nine hours on the hither and yon. Fortunately, her husband, Vernon, kept pretty much quiet, except when he was helping me to translate. Inevitably he got things wrong. I would shout "She SAID I wonder if it'll be raining over there" and the agent would ask "What did she say?" and he responded, "she says she wants to do some reading later on." Sort of like that game "telephone," only with old people.

One thing I noticed was that they had friends in common whose names were old-fashioned, like Muriel and Frank and Lucille and Myrna and Randy and Phyllis. From what I could make out, in between the shouting, Myrna has just gone through her fourth divorce, was now penniless because she let her last husband keep the house in his name, and is through with men for good this time! Frank is in a property dispute with his brother, Clayton, because of some double-dealing that I couldn't really follow since important details were left out, apparently because they had been discussed on a previous excruciating road trip. It seems Randy had a stroke and is on the mend but his daughter won't come visit him because of some indiscretion involving the daughter's babysitter, 15 years ago. Personally, I have never met anyone with these kind of soap opera highs and lows. My friends just bemoan that their mom won't accept their lesbian lover or Jubilat rejected their poetry submission yet again. Or maybe that they've been on the low-income housing waiting list for three effin years.

Hey? Have you ever been fired from a job because of frequent absences due to your nervous breakdown and been tempted to stroll into the office and say, "Hey, Lucy! How's the baby? It's been ages! Is Bill around? I'd love to touch base with him on where he is with his department! You guys looking to hire anyone?"

I have. But that's because of the nervous breakdown. One tends to think like that under certain conditions. Even so? I guess life isn't too bad if I can sit in a coffeehouse all morning, writing silly blog posts.

"It’s got me out of my head, and I don’t know what I came for..."

And nah, that's not me. It's Pete Yorn. He's tells it like it is. Or that's what I heard.

The Irish need their place, and I need a place. Everybody needs some place.

"But when the wind blows, you must schtup your anchor and go."

Haha. I hope schtup is right. Cos that's not me, that's Merz.

I got all busy today working on making my resume into something that someone might maybe notice. I also made an appointment to view a room in a shared housing situation. The Craig's List ad was quaint and the headline read "Antiquated Artist's Quarters." The rent was cheap. The fellow sounded nice, and when I described myself as a "writer," (a necessary evil in this case, as he was looking for artistes and such), he perked up.

So I worked my ass off on the resume, then took a shower and got a ride over to the neighborhood on my friend's way to her mom's joint. She asked if she could drop me at the Fremont Bridge to save time, and I said sure. But once I got about three feet onto the bridge, I remembered that I am scared crazy to walk on drawbridges. It didn't help that cycling commuters were ringing their bells behind me and expecting me to move to the side. I kept walking stiff-legged and hyperventilating. I'm always afraid I'm going to fall off bridges--the pull of the edge or something. So, when I got to the address and banged loudly on the door, I was still shook up. (The guy had instructed me to bang cos "people don't realize how deep the apartment is.")

He answered the door, loosely holding back a young black labrador whose face was pulling towards my crotch. I slipped into the door and held up my hands. I don't like when dogs jump on me. I find it inappropriate. Fortunately, he put the dog on the "sun porch"--meaning an enclosed area of clutter, wet magazines and suspect safety. I can't provide more details; I tend to let my eyes go all blurry when confronted with unpleasantness.

I knew immediately that there was no way. But even I have to show some stiff-lipped Scandinavian courtesy from time to time. The flat was really small and heated to about 85 degrees--he had an old furnace blaring in the corner. The man ("Roger") was wearing a short-sleeved top and his hair was both wispy and plastered at the same time. He had a thin frame. I think he might have been wearing women's jeans. I struggled to untangle my mp3 player and headphone cords from my bookbag strap so I could take off my coat. He made me stand for a few minutes too long. I mentioned some writer-y things and he said, "Oh, I think you might be interested in some of my dabblings..." My stomach got tight.

The common room was painted a kind of bright yellow. And there appeared to be "arty nudes" or else archive photos of maybe Lillian Gish on the walls. (Again with my self-imposed blurry vision.) We sat and talked for 15 minutes about his writing and so forth. He told me a story about his occasional fear of heights thing and I said, "it makes me nervous just hearing that." And he replied, "Yes, I know. I'm a writer. I have the power to use words to get the desired effect from my listeners. Fear, hope, warmth, nervousness... " and, erm, some other crap.

After what seemed like hours, he decided to show me around the "deep apartment." His room, which held a futon (and probably some leopard-print sheets and dirty underwear on the floor and then the second bedroom. It was completely gone to hell. "Roger" explained that he had an "interim boarder"--a woman who had rented the room sight unseen from New York--but that she was "OCD or something" and had to move hastily. She was staying currently with a friend, so he could probably arrange an early move-in for me. I had to laugh to myself at that one. Poor girl.

I won't even talk about what was passing as the bathroom.

When we were standing in the kitchen, he offered me some coffee and I asked for water for my scared-parched throat. He said some weird stuff about a story he's working on involving the ghosts of two English children and asked me some questions about the placement of quotation marks and British spelling vs. American. He had one burner of the gas stove going the whole time. I darted my eyes a lot. I was sweating.

As I was finally hoping to wind things up and get out of there, he said to me. "Well, there's one thing I always like to run past my roommates..." And then he muttered something and pointed to some photos on the refrigerator. I looked and he said, "This is me." He was pointing at some skinny pasty guy wearing no clothes. You know, like the emperor? Before I could react, he flashed a Polaroid and said, "This is my uninhibited former roommate." She was showing her breasts. And then he asked "How do you feel about a clothing optional living arrangement? Is it a deal breaker?" I said, "Yeah. That's a deal breaker." He asked, "Are you sure? I mean, have you ever... you know, considered it?" And I said, "Yeah, I'm sure, and I would have appreciated you mentioning this before I came all the way over here." He said he thought maybe once I saw the place, I might warm to it. He said, leaning casually against the refrigerator, "I am an artist's model, and I spend a lot of time at the beach. I'm not going to come home and dress up in a suit and tie if you know what I mean." I had no idea what he meant. I don't think I said anything. I'm hoping my mouth wasn't hanging open.

Next, he reached up to the top of the refrigerator, took down the brownest banana I have ever seen in my life, and unpeeled it. He said, while eating it, "I wish you would change your mind."I turned and pretty much bolted out of the kitchen, grabbed my stuff, and clawed at the door. He was all worried about the dog getting out. The dog was probably trying to escape, too.

It was raining and I was in a ridiculous spot for getting home without a car. I walked to the closest place with a phone, which luckily was a bar, then called a cab. I dunno. Alex once said that the universe knows I have a blog, and that is why it keeps offering up these opportunities. What a trade-off.

And yeah, I'm reporting him to CL. I think he should include that "optional" stuff up front.

Okay. I'm out, yo.

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel. I focus on the pain:

"the only thing that's real."

Wow. I didn't know this song. Is it sick that I know exactly what this is about? (You probably think this song is about you, don't you?)

When I was growing up, my dad impossibly loved Johnny Cash, who I now love, myself. I'm kind of weird and old-fashioned, anyway. I loved Patsy Cline when I was, like, eight years old. So, way past and before it became fashionable, we used to drive in the car and listen to "A Boy Named Sue" and "Ring of Fire." And Merle Haggard, too. Prison ass bitches!

My dad is a good man. That photo over there of Johnny makes me think of him. He was all Elvis-y black-haired handsome as a young man. He really was. He's good looking now; just white-haired. Anyway. He hates and hated to be alone (which, incidentally, I live for). So, when I was growing up, he used to say "Hey! Do you want to go to the gas station with me?" He'd have to go there and get gas or something, I guess. Oddly, my mom was the opposite. Sometimes when I knew she was going to the mall, I would go out to the station wagon and hide. When she got to the mall and it was too late, I would jump up and say, "Hey!" Hahahaha. I am laughing now at my deviousness. I would usually get a little present as a reward. Weird.

By the way? Mr. Show is SO fucking funny. Honey? When you finally watch it? You will be all, gosh, she is so right. I really should listen to her more often!

And nah, that's not me. That's NIN via Johnny Cash.

Baby, if I could keep it together, don't you think I'd try?

"And maybe, if I could make something of this, why wouldn't I?"

When I was growing up, my mom used to make us weed her gardens. I hated it, mostly because I hated earthworms. My brother and sisters used to look for them, especially, and throw them on me. It was horrible. So, in the summer, I would try to wake up early and head to the city lake to spend the day in the water and the sun instead, avoiding my mom's crap chores and the worms. If you could get out of the house fast enough, she would be drinking Coca-Cola and smoking and talking on the telephone and would completely forget what she told you to do that day. She'd just wave with her cigarette hand as you left.

I was practically 30 when I found myself living in a garden apartment with a patch of dirt and a rose bush outside. What is crazy is that I turned into this sort of gardening fanatic. I didn't know I had it in me, and I didn't have that much earth to work with, but I spent a very little fortune making it rich with good soil and fertilizer (the beginning of my poop fetish?). I also rearranged my flowers constantly as if they were ... furniture. Not a nice thing. Poor flowers. Poor roots. They survived. (The kisses, maybe?) People would walk by and say "I love what you are doing! This is how it was in the 70s. It's so beautiful!" And it was. Every morning, I would wake up and open the door to see what the delphiniums had done while I slept. God, those flowers were so amazing -- the really delicate variation of colors, blue and violet and purple. Also, the poppies. And these crazy daisies. Little ones? I had a big tomato plant in a huge terra cotta pot. I love the smell of tomatoes ripening on a vine. And they taste so good just warm from sunlight like that. You know?

Here is where I failed as a gardener: I always wanted the flowers to be in that just exactly perfect state of perfection. I mean, there was the daily pleasure to be found in how things might be slightly different, but I still ... wanted them to stop and just be how they were at one particular moment. I guess that also explains me moving them around and such all the time. I was trying to get just the right arrangement. On an almost daily basis.

What I'm saying is, you're right. Like those flowers, I'm not containable. Leave me alone. Let me flower, burst, and fade away.

"Let's leave this thing for awhile... it's too far gone. Too far gone."

Nah, that's Sarah Harmer, not me.