Wednesday, March 26, 2003
romance is not dead, my friends. the monkey booked a ticket to come out here for the weekend last night, last-minute airfare and common sense be damned. i couldn't be more thrilled.
and yesterday i exercised both this corporeal body and whatever muscle i've been leaving to atrophy while my plays and stories wither on a hard drive. sure, the running lasted only twenty-five minutes and the writing only ninety, but . . . well, jeez. so much better than nothing. where has my head been? good intentions don't finish the novel. and coupled with my notorious lack of discipline, they seem also make for too many tortilla chips, large laundry piles and reruns of the simpsons.
i don't know what's inspiring the mini-leaf-turning-over. i'm embarassed to say i think it was the oscars. awards always make me take stock of my own doings and find them lacking, sometimes in an unhelpful way (remember when zadie smith won the whitbread? i ate five snickers bars) but sometimes . . . well, nothing wrong with a kick in the pants. at least not these pants, right now. the vast seriousness of everything that happens when i turn the news on might be part of it, too. for whatever reason, i went running, i showered, i started writing and i actually had so much fun doing the work that i was late for my evening phone date.
entirely separate: when the prospect of something possible makes you so overwhelmingly happy, it's hard not to get married to it right away. see, this magic new possibility that means the monkey could be with me in july and august--and without my having given up any of the spring and summer opportunities i previously deemed so unmissable that i put off our reunion--seems so heaven-sent and perfect and made of sugar blah blah blah that it's hard to believe it won't happen. but it might not. and i need to smarten up a little (i think my mother used to say that). if it doesn't happen, i don't want to be heartbroken. but i can tell that i believe, i believe, i believe . . .
and yesterday i exercised both this corporeal body and whatever muscle i've been leaving to atrophy while my plays and stories wither on a hard drive. sure, the running lasted only twenty-five minutes and the writing only ninety, but . . . well, jeez. so much better than nothing. where has my head been? good intentions don't finish the novel. and coupled with my notorious lack of discipline, they seem also make for too many tortilla chips, large laundry piles and reruns of the simpsons.
i don't know what's inspiring the mini-leaf-turning-over. i'm embarassed to say i think it was the oscars. awards always make me take stock of my own doings and find them lacking, sometimes in an unhelpful way (remember when zadie smith won the whitbread? i ate five snickers bars) but sometimes . . . well, nothing wrong with a kick in the pants. at least not these pants, right now. the vast seriousness of everything that happens when i turn the news on might be part of it, too. for whatever reason, i went running, i showered, i started writing and i actually had so much fun doing the work that i was late for my evening phone date.
entirely separate: when the prospect of something possible makes you so overwhelmingly happy, it's hard not to get married to it right away. see, this magic new possibility that means the monkey could be with me in july and august--and without my having given up any of the spring and summer opportunities i previously deemed so unmissable that i put off our reunion--seems so heaven-sent and perfect and made of sugar blah blah blah that it's hard to believe it won't happen. but it might not. and i need to smarten up a little (i think my mother used to say that). if it doesn't happen, i don't want to be heartbroken. but i can tell that i believe, i believe, i believe . . .
