(no subject)
I was thinking last night about a lot of things, though what convinced me was this: I was wondering to myself, does the bowl on the number five open to the right or the left? I couldn't remember. I tried writing it. It didn't look right. I'd written it backwards. And then I thought about how I wished it were Friday night, that I could sleep. I slept anyway, in the end. I woke up at six fifty. I evaded my temporary housemate (what would I be if I called her a babyistter!) by taking my jacket, shoes and school bag and putting them in the bath tub, and then stepping in with them and pulling the curtain closed. She checked inside my bedroom. She poked her head into the bathroom and called my name. I'm stupendously quiet, moreso without shoes. It was around seven then. For the week, our routine had been that she would be blowdrying her hair when I left, and I would call goodbye and she wouldn't hear, so she was that much more prone to think I was already gone. She called my cell-phone. I'd put it on silent. I'm stupendously stealthy. And then she went out the door, and I waited a while and then peeked through my window. She must have seen the curtain move from outside; my room window faces the drive way. She went back in, did another sweep, went deeper into the bathroom this time, but by the time she'd opened the front door, I was back inside the bath tub with the curtains drawn. Everything was in disarray, which is how it is when I leave in the morning. She was satisfied. She left.
And that's the story of today, my rest day. No done-at-ten-thirty rehearsals. No running to the bus. No scrambling to fold all the laundry before my mother gets home. I've done it all at my leisure. I haven't spoken a word all day, which is so nice. The weekend will be a disappointment in terms of colossal naps, but I've spent the last two hours dutifully eating a sandwich and dutifully cleaning and feeding the birds and dutifully watering the flower and dutifully folding the laundry--at my leisure--but was asleep until all that started.
I have a tattoo, too. My uncle's dog tag made its way to the back of my neck, where I layed on it, and now there are stamped words in red there.
I've spent the spoils of my dutiful morning with the Wrens, the Books, and the 2005 issues of Noon and Jubilat Nine, in which there are poems and stories that Jane and Gahl and Aleksey and Zach and Phil and Carson (because it's inappropriate to say "my friends" when I mean only some of them) would enjoy. I'll spend my afternoon with Thus Spoke Zarathustra and Schechtman (this is equality where others would refer to male intellectuals with their last names, and women with their full names, as though the surname were incontestably the masculine possession here in the West) who I hope will speak to me in the cool, strong tones of a good mezzo soprano.
And that's the story of today, my rest day. No done-at-ten-thirty rehearsals. No running to the bus. No scrambling to fold all the laundry before my mother gets home. I've done it all at my leisure. I haven't spoken a word all day, which is so nice. The weekend will be a disappointment in terms of colossal naps, but I've spent the last two hours dutifully eating a sandwich and dutifully cleaning and feeding the birds and dutifully watering the flower and dutifully folding the laundry--at my leisure--but was asleep until all that started.
I have a tattoo, too. My uncle's dog tag made its way to the back of my neck, where I layed on it, and now there are stamped words in red there.
I've spent the spoils of my dutiful morning with the Wrens, the Books, and the 2005 issues of Noon and Jubilat Nine, in which there are poems and stories that Jane and Gahl and Aleksey and Zach and Phil and Carson (because it's inappropriate to say "my friends" when I mean only some of them) would enjoy. I'll spend my afternoon with Thus Spoke Zarathustra and Schechtman (this is equality where others would refer to male intellectuals with their last names, and women with their full names, as though the surname were incontestably the masculine possession here in the West) who I hope will speak to me in the cool, strong tones of a good mezzo soprano.