There’s nothing worse
than feeling bad and not
being able to tell you.
Not because you’d kill me
or it would kill you, or
we don’t love each other.
It’s space. The sky is grey
and clear, with pink and
blue shadows under each cloud.
A tiny airliner drops its
specks over the UN Building.
My eyes, like millions of
glassy squares, merely reflect.
Everything sees through me,
in the daytime I’m too hot
and at night I freeze; I’m
built the wrong way for the
river and a mild gale would
break every fiber in me.
Why don’t I go east and west
instead of north and south?
It’s the architect’s fault.
And in a few years I’ll be
useless, not even an office
building. Because you have
no telephone, and live so
far away; the Pepsi-Cola sign,
the seagulls and the noise.
SUMMER SICK: BRITISH TV AND FOUR HOURS OF SOUP MAKING EDITION
Three separate people took my photograph today which is a thing I had been avoiding.
And I didn’t hate most of them. I actually got sort of stilted by how I had a conversation with someone about ex-pat chefs in Hanoi, Irish step dancing technique with another person, Canadian wool importation laws and a lot of strange topics that seemed to stretch into a few realms I hadn’t really touched since being West. I’m very glad for those differences and I’m not sorry for this tumblr suddenly becoming a series of reminders for things I need to write more about like the turn from Chicago to Albany, or how pitch black pavement looks when your flashing front light is the only thing on the road, or how delirious I get when drinking creme de violette and I wish I could afford that without bribing bartenders with excessive caramels from work.
I’m also okay with how many people know me via food or sugar, as one person told me tonight that they told about a dozen of their students about a chocolate cherry tart I’d made the week before and I felt like I was finally making the right choice for myself.
Summer looks: thick and white thighs due to bicycling/bicycle shorts, bug bites, bruises, broken toe, sprained ankle with broken vessel action, clown shoes for my water ski feet, a slowly less chaotic apartment.
also world how should I cut my hair? Chop it all off, just keep it long so I can braid it when I am in Austria and attempt to sing to the Alps, do nothing and spend less money and just keep wearing the same alligator clip every day because it’s my last one and you have to buy them in packs of three which seems excessive as this one has lasted me over 18 months.
I wind up having a conversation with a downstairs neighbor, who is also now a friend, after waking him up from a nap and using his phone to call several locksmiths until one is able to tell me that they will be there soon. Two beers in, I wait on a ghost to open my doors for me and debate which would be easier the rear door which is a single deadbolt but old and finicky or the two front doors which are also old and finicky. We end up having a fairly sleepy conversation with his drowsiness and my mind being stuck elsewhere which mostly focused on vampires, castles, and bad living situations. We had too many stories or maybe I just felt like I had more than was recounted but one he recited about having an old coal furnace as the means for heating an old New Haven apartment he shared with an ex-fiancée. He ended being betrayed by that person and the furnace, putting eight hundred dollars into filling it in November only to have it be empty by the end of the year. The landlord refused any culpability, citing how the girl must have just been turning up the heat and lying about it to him for the whole two years.
I feel like an absolute idiot this whole time though, focusing still on how productive today and even yesterday, buzzing with excitement at feeling a lot of positive energy from myself and those around me. It all went away so fast as the door blew shut. A horrible contemporary pop country song metaphor that became my life.
I’m just going to keep reading Michael Deforge and drawing this series out as it’s almost done and makes me really happy to look at, little things and all.
You can turn around but there’s nowhere to hide and there’s no way down.
"using her fists in a scientific faction, to the delight of several colliers who were passing."
Glamour UK: What do you get riled up about in a feminist context?
Gillian Anderson: A lot. I have feminist bones and when I hear things or see people react to women in certain ways I have very little tolerance.
Glamour UK: But don't you feel sorry for modern men? Not knowing whether they should help us with our bags and open doors for us or whether we'll see it as an affront?
Gillian Anderson: No. I don't feel sorry for men.
Things since being back: installing shower heads, feeling poor for renting versus owning, new apartment with idiot former tenants, lettuce sandwiches, forty dollar whales made of seashells.