Radio Silence
I think that this may be the longest I have gone without writing a blog post in quite some time. I don't know why I went silent. All I know is that somewhere in the first week of November I tried to write a post about attending the Day of the Dead parade in furs and facepaint, with an armload of marigolds, but I couldn't make it come out in a way that didn't read like a middle class white girl slumming in Mexican Catholicism. I am not about to get a full-sleeve tattoo of sugar skulls, but it's not so difficult to imagine why I might like dressing up like a Catrina, walking through the Mission, and taking a moment to remember all of the people who died. As traditions go, altars and candles and marigolds are a thousand times more interesting than driving with my family to the cemetery in Colma and scrubbing my grandfather's gravestone while we avoid talking about our feelings.
I could not bring myself to sit down and write about work, where the Mysterious Workplace has finally hired someone else to do my former job so that I could devote myself full time to being Carmen San Diego. I am now able to explain obscure EU directives, the internal politics of a variety of NGO's, and Icelandic elections. I did not write about seeing Placido Domingo in Cyrano, which seemed very much worth writing about. I could not manage to write about the financial crisis at the Very Serious Circus School, or the disastrous Hubba Hubba Spy show. I made it all of the way through Thanksgiving without writing about holiday festivities at the Pony Palace, where twenty-something of us feasted on ten types of cheese, eight pies, some sort of tapanade made out of everything worth consuming in this world, three salads, macaroni and cheese, a very fancy green bean casserole, an ocean of stuffing, and a turkey named Sexyback, and then covered each other in googly eyes and fake mustaches.
I did not even write about the DNA Lounge's 25th Anniversary party or Temptation at the Cat Club. No, I had to wait to be knocked out by illness before I could write a journal entry. I am confined to my couch, drinking leftover soup from the hot pot place, watching The Walking Dead and Boardwalk Empire while I wait to stop feeling as if I have swallowed a fistful of razor blades. I hurt and I am grumpy. I am tired of not being able to move. Soon I will run out of good television and I will fall asleep while reading Wikileaks documents.
November, I am so sorry that I ignored you. I promise to lavish all of my attention on December if only you will make this pain go away.
I could not bring myself to sit down and write about work, where the Mysterious Workplace has finally hired someone else to do my former job so that I could devote myself full time to being Carmen San Diego. I am now able to explain obscure EU directives, the internal politics of a variety of NGO's, and Icelandic elections. I did not write about seeing Placido Domingo in Cyrano, which seemed very much worth writing about. I could not manage to write about the financial crisis at the Very Serious Circus School, or the disastrous Hubba Hubba Spy show. I made it all of the way through Thanksgiving without writing about holiday festivities at the Pony Palace, where twenty-something of us feasted on ten types of cheese, eight pies, some sort of tapanade made out of everything worth consuming in this world, three salads, macaroni and cheese, a very fancy green bean casserole, an ocean of stuffing, and a turkey named Sexyback, and then covered each other in googly eyes and fake mustaches.
I did not even write about the DNA Lounge's 25th Anniversary party or Temptation at the Cat Club. No, I had to wait to be knocked out by illness before I could write a journal entry. I am confined to my couch, drinking leftover soup from the hot pot place, watching The Walking Dead and Boardwalk Empire while I wait to stop feeling as if I have swallowed a fistful of razor blades. I hurt and I am grumpy. I am tired of not being able to move. Soon I will run out of good television and I will fall asleep while reading Wikileaks documents.
November, I am so sorry that I ignored you. I promise to lavish all of my attention on December if only you will make this pain go away.