*continues to fail at sleep*
Transcribed from yesterday's journal:
It's late Sunday morning in Portland, and I sit on the bed in my brother and sister-in-law's guest room, on yet another of the weekend jaunts that have become my habit of late. Outside, the trees are clothed in blossoms, and the spring sun shines with generous warmth when it can snatch a path through the rainclouds. My first niecling or nephlet will be born in the next few weeks and the house is infused with anticipation - tiny clothes wait for a wearer, and upstairs a half-packed hospital suitcase lies open by the desk: the props for a whole new life, with the actors wandering the stage, not knowing when the curtain will rise. In the mean time, we drink and debate, walk the dog, go to museums and puppet shows, knocking around as this same old family one more time before becoming a larger one.
Anyhow, you may note that it's been a while since I wrote here. Sometimes life takes these turns that are difficult to put into words, each day pulling with an unnamed current, and by the time you get your head up above the water to look around, your wake has faded into the sea, and tossing bread crumbs of the past back toward the horizon will do little but feed some fish. But for what it's worth, my last three months: I went to San Francisco, and New Jersey, and the mountains, I changed my phone plan and wrote too many emails; in short, I fell in love. So allow me here to briefly introduce the Enigmatic & Incomparable Mr. B, a gentleman scholar of the highest order, unwearying critic of the false and ardent defender of the right (or left as the case may be), a scourge of brilliance sweeping from precept room to conference panel, universally acknowledged as one of the thinkiest thinkers of his generation, Transcendental, Continental, with a complex finish and a smooth peaty aftertaste in the finest Highland tradition, he is (of course) my boyfriend. And how, you might very well inquire, did I procure such an exemplary specimen? Alas, this is not a story I know how to tell, so I will instead offer acknowledgments to those without whom this happy turn of events might never have turned: sincerest thanks of course go to the radiant Rebecca R, for making excellent friends and having a wedding at which to conveniently introduce them, to Al Gore for inventing the Internet, without which tentative acquaintanceship might never have bloomed into perpetually complaintive correspondence, to the MLA for holding its 2008 conference a short & inexpensive flight from Los Angeles, to Gloria's Cafe for producing meals the endorphins from which might easily be confused with burgeoning affection, to Continental Airlines for imbuing every nonstop LAX-EWR flight with a sense of adventure & uncertainty, and (as ever) to Becca D, the B-est of BFFs, for (as ever) telling me not to be an idiot.
Other than that, not a lot has happened. I continue to grow disenchanted with Los Angeles and certain aspects of my life therein, the traffic not even being chief among them. My last remaining friend at work was laid off. I went suburban whale watching. My friendly seasonal allergies welcomed me to spring by jumping all over me and licking my face. I inherited a cursed car from my brother, and learned that one should never, ever bring a motor vehicle into the state of California. I posted a few pictures, skipped out on my first A-list Hollywood party (am sure Brad missed me), went to my first roller rink, and learned about zombies.
Tomorrow I may in fact become a zombie, as I must catch the six a.m. flight back to LA to get to work on time.
Will try to report on my survival sometime soonish.
It's late Sunday morning in Portland, and I sit on the bed in my brother and sister-in-law's guest room, on yet another of the weekend jaunts that have become my habit of late. Outside, the trees are clothed in blossoms, and the spring sun shines with generous warmth when it can snatch a path through the rainclouds. My first niecling or nephlet will be born in the next few weeks and the house is infused with anticipation - tiny clothes wait for a wearer, and upstairs a half-packed hospital suitcase lies open by the desk: the props for a whole new life, with the actors wandering the stage, not knowing when the curtain will rise. In the mean time, we drink and debate, walk the dog, go to museums and puppet shows, knocking around as this same old family one more time before becoming a larger one.
Anyhow, you may note that it's been a while since I wrote here. Sometimes life takes these turns that are difficult to put into words, each day pulling with an unnamed current, and by the time you get your head up above the water to look around, your wake has faded into the sea, and tossing bread crumbs of the past back toward the horizon will do little but feed some fish. But for what it's worth, my last three months: I went to San Francisco, and New Jersey, and the mountains, I changed my phone plan and wrote too many emails; in short, I fell in love. So allow me here to briefly introduce the Enigmatic & Incomparable Mr. B, a gentleman scholar of the highest order, unwearying critic of the false and ardent defender of the right (or left as the case may be), a scourge of brilliance sweeping from precept room to conference panel, universally acknowledged as one of the thinkiest thinkers of his generation, Transcendental, Continental, with a complex finish and a smooth peaty aftertaste in the finest Highland tradition, he is (of course) my boyfriend. And how, you might very well inquire, did I procure such an exemplary specimen? Alas, this is not a story I know how to tell, so I will instead offer acknowledgments to those without whom this happy turn of events might never have turned: sincerest thanks of course go to the radiant Rebecca R, for making excellent friends and having a wedding at which to conveniently introduce them, to Al Gore for inventing the Internet, without which tentative acquaintanceship might never have bloomed into perpetually complaintive correspondence, to the MLA for holding its 2008 conference a short & inexpensive flight from Los Angeles, to Gloria's Cafe for producing meals the endorphins from which might easily be confused with burgeoning affection, to Continental Airlines for imbuing every nonstop LAX-EWR flight with a sense of adventure & uncertainty, and (as ever) to Becca D, the B-est of BFFs, for (as ever) telling me not to be an idiot.
Other than that, not a lot has happened. I continue to grow disenchanted with Los Angeles and certain aspects of my life therein, the traffic not even being chief among them. My last remaining friend at work was laid off. I went suburban whale watching. My friendly seasonal allergies welcomed me to spring by jumping all over me and licking my face. I inherited a cursed car from my brother, and learned that one should never, ever bring a motor vehicle into the state of California. I posted a few pictures, skipped out on my first A-list Hollywood party (am sure Brad missed me), went to my first roller rink, and learned about zombies.
Tomorrow I may in fact become a zombie, as I must catch the six a.m. flight back to LA to get to work on time.
Will try to report on my survival sometime soonish.