I haven’t had any sleep. Been working all night on a client’s logo so I’m a little woozy now. While taking a break during the wee hours, I opened my journal and reread old entries just because.
Here’s a (small) portrait of myself before you knew me:
30 November 2007
When we demand honesty from one another, where does our disappointment begin? Can the parents be forgiven for forgetting to be an adult, can the child still be understood for being a child?
When we demand honesty from one another, are we expecting too much? Is trust a myth?
15 February 2008
How young we were, how ignorant—lines from Eavan Boland’s poems as I listen to one of my favourite poets read her work. Moonlight-coloured funerals, that kind of thing, that tone of voice.
What else could we have done?
We failed our moment,
or our moment has failed us
…I just want to disappear. To never be found….To what extent should I embrace this?
24 February 2008
…So after midnight, we greeted the celebrant a happy birthday and then we made our quick escape. The plan: walk nearby to a coffeehouse and dish. The opportunity to have a critique session has presented itself and the need to gab about all the angst was immediate. However we got a bit sidetracked…
AND THEN BAM! We got pulled over by the cops. This was an Oscar performance waiting to happen…
11 April 2008
BUT HOW DOES A WRITER STOP WRITING?
sometime between 2008 and 2010
mushroom – 8 oz
1 tbsp oil
half medium red onion
→ saute mushroom + onion
pizza crust thin crust
→ add garlic
→ spread cup of marinara on crust
→ pile on mushroom + onion
→ add sun-dried tomato
→ add cheese
→ add basil
3 December 2010
sometime around midnight
I should be reading, but my mind is flying a thousand miles a minute, so might as well write all these thoughts down and be done with it. I have a sinking suspicion that these will all be filed under “MATERIAL” anyway, inside my brain. These days, all my thoughts and scribbles are “MATERIAL.” Everything I write, any idea, joke, comeback or anecdote is material. This is all Robert Lowell’s and Elizabeth Bishop’s fault. I have been reading WORDS ON AIR, a compilation of almost all of their letters to each other, and in the introduction it was said that both poets mined their correspondence and used these as bases for poems….
…My grammar used to be impeccable; now it’s just horrid! Sometimes when I hear myself speak or see what I’ve written…I’m a step away from self-strangulation.
I want to blame my constant interaction with my American clients for this serious lapse in sentence construction and tenses, but really, maybe I have just become really, really, REALLY rusty because I haven’t written properly in so long. Just the other day I found myself actually holding Strunk and White’s handbook…
18 December 2010
midnight, or thereabouts
THINGS TO DO NEXT YEAR/RESOLUTIONS
1. Worry less.
STUFF TO PUT ON WALLS
2. Frank Sinatra
6. ART! FUCKING ART!
2 January 2011
…Sometimes I want to go to a fortune-teller, you know. And demand that I be told of my future. So I wouldn’t worry anymore.
…I feel so much that I don’t belong here, that I was born in the wrong place, the wrong era, even.
24 April 2011
past 12 AM
Cake cake cake cake cake.
And so on. My eyes are getting heavy. Huh. These excerpts are more boring when all typed out. Well—there goes the illusion of being Oscar Wilde in this life.
Good morning, M. Also: habits. Or patterns.