2005-07-13 || 12:32 a.m.

|| cheese and whine ||

i haven't been alone so much since i lived by myself in the studio with the big windows on the third floor in albany. all the neuroses have come back, and although m faithfully comes home at a semi-regular time each day, i find myself in the same lonely lady patterns. putting on shoes to spur going outside but sitting in the kitchen for want of a Plan. getting in the car to drive two blocks and decide wherever i was going is not worth the trip/has an outcome my unemployed bank account cannot afford. i talk to the cat. i read snippets from truman capote's biography.* i further my obsession with country music by tuning into The Wolf while washing dishes (i know almost all the songs now. completely unironically at this point, is that how it happens? i am not craving big hair yet, although i have a secret desire to search out a mechanical bull.). i cook elaborate dinners and lean into the table while m takes the first bite, racing to the sink to get him water when it is apparent he does not like the wine i bought.
i am not one for active friend-making. i think of the lot back home (!) and seeing their plans spelled out, parties and shows and birthdays and phone messages featuring renditions of neil young songs, makes me choke up a little. my letter writing campaign is horribly backed up, clogged with two jars of jam to be sent to southern california. i am a solitary lady, i am, but living in this sort of vacuum is a test of good mental health i think.
living with becky and brian was one of the best things ever. not to say i am not happy here or not satisfied with living with my man, but having those two around, looking forward to their coming home each day or drinking coffee saturday mornings or playing boggle at a moment's notice... or sitting on the porch or singing to songs on the car radio or fixing becky dinner while she did schoolwork. oh i miss it.
i still kind of feel like i have moved to the top of a very steep mountain, and i can wave at the people way down below but just wish more than anything that they could climb up for some tea.

*best book of all time: truman capote by george plimpton, my new hero. it's a compilation of various oral accounts of t.c. from his early childhood up to the bitter end. i love everyone in it. and you hear all kinds of dirt on harper lee and carson mccullers and fancy lads and ladies. books in the summer are always better. is it because you can lie on your belly in grass while reading them?

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