Falling On My Sword
They're not the sort of band I can listen to with other people. They make me want to be alone.
At nine o'clock I took the Suburban to be appraised at the Chevy dealer so we can trade it in for a Trailblazer. I'd rather drive a Corvette, if we have to go Chevy, but I guess a "new car" will be fun to drive.
It seemed like maybe it was a nicer Tuesday than the more recent ones. Sunny and whatnot.
I left the dealership and drove and drove. My body had begun to ignore me, and it engaged in a battle with my brain over who would be in control today.
While sitting in the Majestic Diner I fed myself and read from The Corrections and it became acutely clear to me that I want a grandmother. I used to have a couple of them, but it's been about ten years since the last one passed away. It doesn't help that another grandmother cropped up recently and is the perfect example of lame-grandmother-hood. Her presence makes me want a good grandmother.
I picked out a really cool one in the diner.
Walking back to the car, trying to decide where to go next, I grabbed a toothpick. I love toothpicks. I've been rolling toothpicks from corner to corner in my mouth since before I had my first tooth. I don't actually pick my teeth. I just let it sit.
I decided to go to the mall. There are very specific times when a mall suites me. Today I was unfocused, and not having a particularly good hair day, wearing my least-favorite jeans, and I just wanted to walk undisturbed and to look at things (something anything nothing) and to watch people.
I crossed the sunlit atrium and saw the name of the mall posted high against the sky: "The Source" it read.
That word amazed me in such a context. How could the concept of a mall as a source be a positive thing? I passed a woman near the restrooms who was breast-feeding her infant. That baby knew what the source was.
The question that bothered me was not why was Vanessa Carlton nominated for a Grammy, but rather, who is responsible for the sustenance of Vanessa Carlton and is there anything I can do to make that person stop? Her voice is like fingernails on a blackboard to me. But she's not as bad as Dave Matthews.
The second question that bothered me was why does every store I walk in want to make me look like a goddam hippie? I hate the "boho couture," and I hate the words "boho" and "couture."
There was a baby singing to himself while his mother shopped clearance. He knew all the words. Funny song, too, because it made him laugh when he got done. Another baby started telling me a story when I walked passed. I stopped and asked him to tell me all about it. He gestured as to ask where to start, so I suggested he start at the beginning. After only a moment he sat perfectly silent and stared at me. His mother marveled at his sudden silence and asked him why he had stopped talking. I answered for him, though, and told her the beginning wasn't that long ago for him.
I know baby's love attention, but nothing gives me joy like receiving attention from a child.
The second realization was that I want a baby. We knew this already, of course, but coupled with the previous realization that I wanted a grandmother and the sense of longing was a bit whelming.
In Virgin Records I strolled as a normally do. I really don't like going to record stores with people in general. I almost always go alone. Maggie and Tylere can shop with me, but other people make me nervous. I zigzag. Double back. Pick up. Put down. Listen. Sing. Sigh. Sit down. Shuffle. Zone out. And if the wrong person is with me I get self-conscious and worried they need me to hurry up, and then I get paranoid that I'll buy the wrong album.
Today I bought The Promise Ring because I was missing my crusty punk rock boyfriend that I had for ten days a couple years ago.
I'm not going to explain that sentence right now.
I also Bought The Rentals because The Man With Two Brains is one of the coolest songs I've ever heard.
The third cd was the cd of intent: Pedro the Lion.
As I emerged back into the sunlight I had failed to experience the exhiliration that comes from finding an $8 cd. I was moderately proud of myself for having been active instead of propped up in my bed.
I don't know why the sleep is upon me. There are some who having eating disorders which cause them to feed their depression, but for me my comfort is in sleeping. I get this desperate sensation that everything will be better when I wake up, even after I've just woken up.
And so I must force myself into activity to restrain the sleep-monster.
It doesn't help that a few nights ago I dug out the t-shirt of Tylere's which he gave as a going-away gift. I'd stopped wearing it. He wanted to give me something heartfelt, he said. I would like something heartfelt. And to sleep in something heartfelt. Sleep until everythings better.
To make things worse, my phone rang on the drive home with a call from Tucson to tell me Arizona University will have nothing of me for their graduate program in the fall. After telling me no, the non-native-English speaking woman continued to inform me that I was not accepted. It was not as though she were giving me reasons, but that she kept on finding different ways to rephrase the sentence.
I ended the conversation moments before the involuntary reaction was coaxed from my tongue. The words, "I get the goddam point," were the next to come if she hadn't hung up.
You know, whenever I ask out a guy and he tells me "no" I will stop for a minute and say, "he probably meets girls like me all the time." After a little thought, though, I manage to convince myself that I'm special and shit.
In this case, though, with two universities telling me "no" I have stopped both times to say, "they probably meet applicants like me all the time." After a little thought, though, this feeling never goes away.
It's certainly true, you know.
And so, I've married myself to the pursuit of education and already the "he loves me not" petals are piling up.
Well, Tuesday didn't do anything wrong today, but for some reason I just can't get my lens to take anything in long enough to make sense of it.
