I captured a Craigslist coffee table. I love it to bits but it dominates my living room, dances all the time, basically won’t shut up. Yes, those are drawers, and end leaves, too, though at least it has decency not to spread those wings of midcentury insanity, least not when I’m around.
Couch arrives next Friday — a handsome, cheerful but quiet piece that should be able to contain coffee table, at least settle it down.
Roaming the Lake Street Savers, I spied my first Jerry in the wild. I had to buy it, of course, and of course planned to send it to Everything Is Terrible’s Maguire Watch, but now I kind of want to keep it. It’s so… alluring. And magical. It really ties the room, my apartment and whole life together.
If you are not familiar with Everything Is Terrible, what’s wrong with you?
In other news, I love the Lake Street Savers. All sorts of creeps and weirdos leave special gifts.
I found her this way, honest.
I have a hard time relaxing. Every hour is structured, how else will life and death get done? and when the warm weather comes and wants my sweat, I kinda freak out. Fun is so much fun, but the sun, so unproductive.
Thanks, Sam, for inciting adventure. At 2 a.m. we sneak on a riverboat with a bindle of beer to cruise the Mississippi while jigging to a jug band and listening to a lecture on intellectual property and stories about riverfolk. The captain inquires over loudspeaker, Do teenagers even listen to Joy Division anymore? and announces that he’s a wedding officiant, so if anyone wants to get married—right—now—just let him know.
The banks of the river in darkest night are otherworldly, but that’s just an expression.
This is, in fact, the world that I live in.
Not hard to keep my chin up, just hard to keep from laughing, I know better than to take anything too seriously. Other than myself, but that’s a quiet matter not for polite company, you were raised better than that. Even wolves respect.
I am not about to deny it. We work hard to get where we get, never mind the sliding scale of damage and difficulty. Expectations warped, the web makes us believe we’re already famous, already what we’re supposed to be. Act natural. Be and believe in your someone else self, the trope you couldn’t imagine your way out of, as imaginative it may be. “Find what others want, and give it to them,” What Works, pads the penury.
Or hold your tongue in grit teeth and call it integrity. Ingenuity. Possession by a vision you’re not sure you want to see, much less attempt to explain and share. Then get rich in all sorts of things slowly. Life is not driven by plot.
I don’t want to be in a call center all my life. PhD candidates who can’t open PDFs, all some see, that raise in salary, more pennies for the debt how am I going to do this, ram a theory in a gap? shit, you tell me.
What am I supposed to do.
When I was a teen, there was no such thing as YA. You were a child, or you were an adult. Deal with it. I would go to Barnes & Noble, find the space in fiction where my name would fit and clear the shelves a foot, fuck it, two! three! four! for all my addictions, dissonance and grit, all the books I’d write and put on it. Someday. When the world goes away. When I sit my ass down and kill all the sleep in me. Trust myself to fail and succeed. When Bree wins the lottery. When all I really need is an inch, maybe three. Four, five. A half-foot of spines all lined up, caging nerve and fire.
Even three inches will take a lifetime, take and give my life away. But really, what’s the hurry? Slow plot or not, these characters got me got, all howl and growl, tenacity and wit.
I’ll never put me down.
I will never quit.