2000-11-01 || 16:34:23

|| november first and there aren;t any saints around. ||

i want to go home to sit in the cold on my bed and listen to the quiet. and feel uncomfortable about how messy my apartment is. it has reached new heights in disorderliness, i think. clothes are spilling out of the closet like molten lava. i can't walk to the bathroom without stepping on dresses or sweaters or underwear or my wig that i threw off last night because me head was so itchy. the disconnected phone is in the center of the hallway, the mouthpiece off the cradle. there's a string of polaroids on the carpet. the kitchen sink is full of dishes with food suspended in the puddles. there are pots on the stove from my french toast binge the other night. there are clean clothes around my bed that are now all wrinkly and not very convincing of their cleanliness. there are records fanning out in a six foot radius from the record player. the haunted mirror is propped up on the couch next to books and empty suitcases and i have such the crazy desire to go home and clean it all up. after my moment or two of silence on my bed island. i want to rip everything out of the closets, unpack all of my books, throw away the boxes that have been in the kitchen since i moved in, drink ibarra hot chocolate and listen to le tigre and nest in my mess for a while.

it is november first. i am going to write a novel this month . i have to have written 50,000 words by november 31. and it doesn't have to be good or make sense really, it just has to be 50,000 words. and i love that. how all the pressure is off... quantity over quality. i am hoping wondrous things will sprout from my fingertips with no critic trying to shove them back in for fear of being shitty. i feel like i'm coming out of hibernation. i haven't written a word yet.

but that novel idea was so inspiring to me.. i've always wanted to do it and i want to do it in the future and whew, i'm going to do it. and i wish i could just take that approach with everything.. just do things instead of obsessing and not doing and feeling awful. i want to write this stupid novel that will be bloody awful but will be tangible and will sit on my desk for me to confirm what a nerd i am. i want to record a tape with michael of us singing with the accordion and singing saw. i want to play the singing saw like julian does. i want to get better at the guitar. i want to stand in owen's living room, surrounded by the organ and his keyboards and the drum set and my cat meow meow, and have us come up with something heartwrenching and beautiful. i want to paint a picture for my dad's birthday. i want to make more books. i want to shoot a fake documentary parodying this silly blackhaired san francisco scene. and it's november, and i think i'm going to try to do it.

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