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2003-10-10 || 10:58 a.m. || friday fallday || i have been a bit under the weather and sleeping too much and getting my head caught in the faraway places i keep meaning to visit. today is the first really autumn-like day, all sunny and dry and windy, and my hair puffs up in places it was not designed to. note to self: get out the beanies and hats. note to self: look for new jacket to define this season. note to self: don't worry so much. don't worry so much. last night kelly locked her keys in her truck and had to borrow my car to pick up a friend from the airport. i stood in the street for an hour with a tow truck driver who alternately talked to the car and me while trying to jimmy the lock: 'oh i got your ass now. don't worry little miss, you'll get to work tomorrow.' i held his flashlight and offered encouragement and tried to suggest that the power window lever he was so intent on pushing would not open the door; i pulled up my knee socks and surveyed the dark dark street and watched the neighbors peek out from behind gauzy curtains and front doors. on the other side of the truck i could see through the windows all of the tow truck driver's medallions clinking against the glass: a large dollar sign, the african continent, several crucifixes, one of which was at least four inches long bearing a silver jesus with a filigreed crown of thorns. in the gutter beside me was a plank of wood with an ancient card bearing a san francisco furniture manufacturing label, and after the door was finally opened and there were thank yous and mild embarrassment over my skirt getting hiked up while trying to get the VIN number for the tow truck driver, i brought the plank inside and drew ships in white pencil up and down the piece of wood. current obsessions: landlocked ships, victorian wallpaper patterns, old-fashioned cursive found on phantom postcards and on the bottoms of silver julip cups, old old letters from good good friends with completely different handwriting from present-day, the veins of leaves, tonic water with lemon wedges, that horrible visceral feeling one gets quite by surprise when stumbling upon pockets of ex-boyfriendy air (like opening a tomb and being assaulted with ancient air, air of death, air with intense feelings preserved) after valiantly repeating again and again 'i am over it,' late late night phone calls of meeting simon le bon and running out to whitecastle, losing the nerve to call a memorized number to make an appointment with a therapist/counselor (don't know what to say. cannot isolate problem. want to blame everything on that mysterious cloud whose fallout coats everything, everything with a supernatural layer of fine dust.), new york. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |