* * * * *

i had mono this past schoolyear, which proved to be not completely without its advantages, considering my case was serious enough to prompt the doctors to prescribe me twenty vicodins--which i ate at a commendably steady pace while lying in my mother's tasseled canopy bed, plucking them from their prescription bottle as if from a holiday candy bowl. so it was that i read this book in a fog of contentment, but my central point is that it's a lovely reading experience even if you don't have the fortune of reading it while feeling all benumbed and whimsical. james salter has, for most of this book's publication time, been doomed to the obscurity that comes with being namecalled a "writer's writer"--which i suspect just means that his language is so precise and poetic that it makes the critics pluck at their suspenders with jealousy! salter writes much about melancholy sex, but he does so in achingly sensual prose. it's completely up my alley!

p.s. also read: henry james' the turn of the screw (a meritable effort, i suppose) and kazuo ishiguro's when we were orphans (in progress).

When Things Were Sweet and Good

I know what the foreign hair ribbon

curled like a pink satin cobra

under our bathroom sink

means.

Remember when I told you I was seven,

And how I told you how I grew up a swamp baby.

How Jess and I would play Indians in the stinking mud

And the honeysuckle vines that weren’t honeysuckle,

instead red trumpets of poison waiting for some girl child to suck.

Watch out for snakes in the mud, Mama said.

If one comes at you, scream and Papa will come

chop its head with the tomato-garden hoe.

Things get lost in the swamp jungle, she said.

Don’t get lost, and if you do just scream

and Papa will come and put you on his back.

Bugsy walked into the swamp and never came back.

He had a white fur bib and a dough belly.

We are Indians, and I am the guide,

and we smash wild raspberries on our cheeks,

and put duck feathers in our headbands.

And we find artifacts in the swamp mud,

including tiny bones.

Put them in your shaman pouch, I said.

And this old blue collar too,

these are Indian things!

I know what that ribbon means,

and it’s too bad for you,

and worse for me.

i've been a terrible diarist lately. isn't diarist a grotesque word? but it's a word just the same--i just looked it up!


r. and i are broken up forever now. i got caught cheating. r. and i never ever fucked! and if we did i pinched my eyes shut and worried about whether we should take henrietta bean to the vet for her stomatitis and whether there were enough laundry quarters in the pickle jar. i had sex with another man in boston, and i didn't think about henrietta's gums at all. he stripped me, gently, and i was scared, and he said, "aw, darling. now you're not wearing anything but your panties," and i thought that was the sweetest, most deviant thing i've ever heard said to me in bed. he let me take extravagantly long showers in his bathtub. and when i took a bite of portabello flan at the nice italian restauant and declared it the most undigestable texture my tongue had ever felt, and i said, "i want it out of my mouth!" he held the napkin for me to spit it out. of course i swallowed the flan courageously--but he held the napkin out!


and then there was michelle in new york. i never would have went to the man in boston if it wasn't for michelle in new york. meghan, michelle, and i were sitting in a bar--it was near 3 a.m. by this time--and michelle got up to go to the restroom. immediately meghan and i leaned toward each other, and i said (having known michelle for a year and having spent at least every other day of that year in her company), "is michelle straight or gay?" "i was going to ask you the same thing!" replied meghan. and the next thing i knew, meghan was leaning in toward michelle instead of me, confessing her intimate bygone affair with her long-lost best friend and secret girl lover. and i had never seen michelle so riveted by a story in all our time. before that night we had all three of us slept together in her parents' bed in the flat on 53rd--but when i came home later that night to come to bed, they were already there, just two of them, tangled up in legs and bedsheets. i wasn't prepared at all. i could never have predicted my reaction--but i went to the bathroom and pressed my face into the monogrammed towel and cried over a broken heart for the first time in two years. i took two klonopin and went to sleep in the couch, but i cried in my sleep until my mascara bled all over her parents' designer throw pillows. and i took three more klonopin, but it didn't stop my heart racing, and i called the man in boston, and he bought me a business-class ticket, and i left for him while michelle was in the shower and i ignored all her phone calls until i was sure meghan had left the northeast for good, and that michelle and i could continue to spend every hour together in completely platonic bliss like always.


ever since michelle discovered she was a lesbian, she has started drinking every night, and i even love her for the vodka she puts in her water bottle before she delivers her lectures to her writing students. 


when i told my sister i had broken up with robert and i had cheated on him, she said, "was it with michelle?" 


"how could you think that?" i said.  


"michelle was in love with you last summer." 


and i didn't know back then that when i spilled wine all over my shirt and we took it off to dry over the radiator, that i should have sucked in my naked tummy for her, that i should have pretended to be so drunk that i didn't notice if i laid too close to her on her bed, that i should have told her in drunken intimacy that one time in fifth grade i pulled a girl under my bed and demanded that she kiss me the way she would kiss a man. but i didn't know then!


i loved r. dearly, but the real heartbreak is that i'll never cry into a monogrammed towel over him.

i feel a little sad today. i'm at home in houston for the holidays. there has been a big shake-up here in recent days, although i feel like i am alone in considering the events a "shake-up." i don't know if anyone else could reasonably consider my story upsetting, but the solitude and the slow pace of holidays at home is affording me the luxury of moping. here is what happened:


on tuesday evening, i was reading on the sofa, and r. was fixing himself a slice of cherry pie. my mother was taking out the trash. when she opened the door leading from the house to the garage, we heard her scream, four times in succession. she immediately slammed the door shut and called for me and r. to come.


"maynard has got a rat!" she said in a panic. "except it's not a rat. it has a bushy tail! and it's still alive!"

( cut for length )

when communicating my material christmas wishes to my family, i asked for this book using very specific and manipulative language such as heart's greatest desire, simply must have, would be heartbroken if i didn't receive. i've been gazing longingly at this cover on amazon ever since i learned of this book's existence. the cover makes implicit promises of southern belle glamour, of silky curtains and lush rugs, of majestic plantations in various states of decay: all of my home-fashion aspirations contained within the pages of a single book! unfortunately, the interior of the book doesn't live up to the promises of the title (it depicts creole style, but for the extravagantly wealthy) or the pictures (which are mostly of the author in various evocative poses, rather than pretty house pictures). also unsettling was miss parlange's naive glorification of those "quaint" other cultures, the depiction of which serve only to make herself look more eclectic. the author, who is descended from a long line of plantation owners, actually says that her black nursemaid "loved to sweep, clean," and wear her blue maid uniform that could barely contain her "plump brown arms." and her vietnamese seamstresses (how thrifty--hiring one's own team of seamstresses) always sent the fabric back smelling of egg rolls. i mean, really! 

i'm reading kate chopin in advance for my job next semester. (i was assigned as a writing mentor to an upper-div english class, american realism--i am totally pleased with the professor and our reading list!) i'm not very far into it. it is promising, but it is maybe more restrained than i would have expected, in language and in subject matter. i prefer to take my victorian novels with a spoonful of decadent details and sugary language.

i'm re-reading one of my favorites. before i read little, big, i always wondered how a writer could ever really achieve a sort of timeless quality in a novel. and i don't mean "timeless" in the sentimental sense of the word, but in the literal sense: a story that literally feels as though it could be set in any time and any place. i think john crowley has done that here. it is both the most mysterious, ethereal novel i have ever read, and the most real.

i feel the urge to record everything that has happened in these past few weeks: school triumphs (of which there are few) and travails (of which there are many), monetary miseries, work woes, et cetera et cetera--but such things are only of false importance. what i really want to remember is this:


♥ merryweather curled like a little fermata beside me in bed


♥ michelle and kevin and i making up the plots for western movies in which we will star; i as a corrupt sheriff and michelle as a brothel madam and kevin as a banker with whom i have struck up a sneaky bargain in order to catapult michelle out of her brothel business (basically we are deadwood)


♥ michelle jumping into the backseat of g.'s truck and leaning forward with both her elbows propped cavalierly on the edges of the front seats, cooing, "hey, boys"--but not in a seductive way, in her sweet way--because she is my tough-talking tomboy friend


♥ drinking with daniel & derek & sarah & noelene on daniel's graduation night, gossiping sweetly about old flames and the english department (and old flames in the english department), all of our nostalgic memories bubbling up along with the champagne


♥ well, i can't help but talk about work! so i will just say that i got a wonderful well-paying job, which means i can quit my job at the tea factory--even though i will miss those production boys!

* * *

my life is unraveling a little bit. i can't wait for january--and that is because in january i can start anew with my life, and one of the ways i will do that is by purchasing a moleskine planner in which i can distinctly list my to-dos and my to-don'ts for the year. at the beginning of this semester, i made a special trip to the bookstore to purchase a planner--that is, to purchase an organized life--and you can imagine my dismay when i found there were no planners corresponding to the schoolyear (that is, from august to july, rather than from january to december), and so i went home empty-handed and crestfallen. i think that is the definitive moment when i really gave up on any chance of success this semester. 


right now i feel like the contents of my mind could be visually represented by frayed bits of thread and mismatched buttons and mysterious powders and lipstick caps and pennies. 


when i was a little girl i always dreamt of being sent off to boarding school, because i was enamoured with the idea of having a precise routine and rules imposed on me by sweet-natured nuns; i daydreamed of regimented meals and strict bedtimes and precise hem lengths for jumpers. there is something comforting and quietly pleasant about daily habits and routines. and i am terribly inept at imposing such guidelines for myself.


in conclusion, i am a complete mess!

( decadently bohemian! )

( click for bigger pictures! )

am reading the stories of john cheever. john cheever, where does all your writerly elegance come from? never an awkward word; nary a sentence fragment! always the perfect balance of erudition and poetics. is elegance just the natural consequence of being so uptight? if so, then i will gladly snub my nose at all philistines, i will drink only the choicest wines, i will practice propriety at all costs—because i want to write as daintily as you.

but mr. cheever, won't you let your guard down for just a second and tell me exactly what it is you were doing in that hotel room with raymond carver?


* * *

from the may 2004 elle decor uk

every time r. and i get into an argument, it seems, he has a grand, earth-rattling allergy attack right afterward. i feel like it is all some sinister plan on his part, to specially time these episodes of fanatical phlegm-clearing and nose-blowing. does he think it will get his point across? does he think i will take pity on him, for getting stuck with such a sorry lot in life? well, i don't! and i'm a terrible person, but honestly, he should be in shakespeare plays, his sighs are that dramatic. and his nose-blowing would put a trombone to shame, i do not exaggerate. and i have to wake up at 7 a.m. tomorrow, but right now he is stomping all around the house like a heavy-footed ostrich or some other evil & graceless animal. i won't sleep a wink tonight, that's for sure. and if i do fall asleep, i am sure to wake up with a snotty tissue under my pillow as a reminder of his displeasure.

it is 3 a.m. and i was just startled awake by a terrible pain. i have taken a v., and i am trying to distract myself until it settles in. soon, i hope i hope i hope. 


a drunk is kicking a beer bottle outside on the street, but otherwise it is very quiet tonight—no city noises to keep me company. 


daniel and i went to a circus earlier tonight—a little family production under a tent set up in a softball field. beforehand we wandered around the grounds, watching the sad-eyed ponies and listening to a man on a loudspeader advertising their reptile exhibit: see our spiders and snakes, spiders and snakes—and those ugly tarantulas, tarantulas, tarantulas, over and over again, lulling us into hypnosis. hardly anyone spoke english, and there was much confusion over the ticket-buying process. finally we got our tickets and the show began. there was a contortionist dressed as alice from alice in wonderland and acrobats in ninja suits. in between acts they sold little packets of peanuts, five of which were lucky winners, the ringmaster proclaimed. the crowd went absolutely wild for this: the prize was a balloon! daniel and i both declared it was the best circus we had ever seen. 


this morning r. and i drove out to the country to a town where you may find the best barbeque in all the south. we ate at a place called smitty's, where there were smoke pits everywhere you turned, indoors! the room was so smoky that the red bricks had been turned black, and ashes hung from the ceiling like black cumulus clouds. after lunch, r. let me drag him into a nearby antiques store, though i couldn't afford anything. i wanted to buy some enamelware bread boxes in luminescent sea greens and aquas, for storing my ribbons and things, you know—but they were $155 each. on the way back home we listened to elizabeth cotten sing sad country lullabies about freight trains and long-gone men, and i fell asleep watching the pastures roll by.


it is cold, cold, cold. it was just yesterday that i walked through a flower patch in the shining sun and upset a cloud of butterflies. and now it is really winter, i think—but i hope not! i hope this is just another trick on the weather's part. summertime is always bidding false farewells in texas; it never really leaves.