I'm teaching Moby-Dick starting tomorrow. Psyched. As usual I've got a whole weird body full of a year of rereading and reading about. And brooding, writing, and dreaming about. And no lesson plan. But it'll be fine, it'll be good.
I'm listening to Hole's Celebrity Skin over and over right now. It's super awesome.
Found an old bottle of Guerlain L'Heure Bleue for real cheap and it's great stuff.
Favorite pasta sauce at present: lots of ground fennel and dried rosemary, plenty of red and black pepper, and a scandal of garlicky garlic. It's the culinary equivalent of being beaten half to death on a California hillside and it makes me happy. Beer: Dale's Pale Ale. Bad coffee lately; I feel cursed. I need a Swiss press as my French one is too fickle and grudge-dogged. Grudge-dogged.
Crazy Heart kicked my ass. I called my Dad late at night driving alone and at velocity out of a parking garage afterwards. Reception near impossible on all counts.
Reading also Adam Zagajewski and again with Colette. It started when it snowed several feet and I was housebound and the velocity of American letters made staying put impossible. Zagajewski says, "Love sets us free; time kills us." Oh, I hope so.
I keep thinking of the big sketch book you made. It's a perfect object.
I have no reason not to be happy; I am not happy.
My chemicals is all effed, sounds like you should be saying, at least to not take responsibility for not finding happiness in circumstance. Weirdest damned fact of my California bacchanal was that I was bloody miserable the whole bloody time. No REASON, really, except my chemicals. I think my baseline is a sort of gnawing anxiety which is relieved momentarily every so often by bouts of carousing and by windfalls of cash. Read this week's NYer re: depression: fact or fuckup?
ReplyDeleteI wish it was easier for humans to be happy. You are both so damn easy to love.
ReplyDeleteYeah, read that. A little confusion over the definition of depression, but still a nice corrective to the wholesale pathologizing of brooding/melancholia/grief. Plus there's blinky ads.
ReplyDeleteOh, Blake. Thanks, sister. And a big back atcha.
ReplyDeleteThere's some o that weird chicken-scratchy shit agin. Weird.
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