From the notebook

8am, the deck

Went to bed at 11:30, woke up at 3:30, furious about the apartment thing, my stomach in an uproar. Finished Thackeray, finally got back to sleep. Dishes in the sink. I just want to stay out here and never go back to the city. I’ll start the tamagotchi story today, maybe for Nerve? No, not for Nerve, not for Modern Love, not for anything or anybody but me. I wonder when Sharon’s class starts. All the 19th century novels I’ve been reading, sagas about the intersection of love and survival, and how bad decisions have lifelong consequences. Fuck bestsellers and comedic essays. What is good? What is of lasting value? I read another Carlin interview the other day, his despair for the species. I agree. Also, I need a haircut. Planned to go to Talisman today, save some hermit crabs, maybe I will this afternoon. For now, start the thing and see where it goes.

Noon, Jumping Jack’s

Wrote for a while, walked to the Pines, now waiting to see if I can get something to eat here, or if girlie is too busy with the zero other tables she has. Lame. This is the summer of my discontent, my sunglasses sliding down my fat, wet face. I don’t want to teach anymore. I was trying to figure out how I could love myself, why I should love myself. I’m so unmotivated. At least when I’m driven by bad feelings I’m driven. Why doesn’t this chick check on her tables? Dumdum. That’s my new favorite insult. Listening to the Bob Marley they’re playing, Greatest Hits, of course, like he never wrote any other songs. Makes me think of 1988, of W., who was way down on my line, of how I fell in love with G. because he said he loved me. I was tragic and beautiful back then. Too much thinking today. Enough.

4pm, the deck

A shower, a moment with myself in the mirror. Now what. The short stories of Edith Wharton, selected by Roxana Robinson. I should shmooze more. Ugh, no I shouldn’t. It’s always our mothers’ decisions not to have abortions that put us here. I don’t know what that means. I should take another walk soon. A story called I Was a Thumbsucking Pothead. A story called Spit in My Mouth, about the poetry scene, and debasement, and the Rape Fantasies piece, Anne telling me, I don’t think you should read it, Penny trying to kiss me. It’s nice out here. I’m anxious. I’m anxious all the live long day. Anyway, Wharton. Makes me think of K. and the party last June. These poignant moments that can be met with integrity and grace. Confessing regrets, dramatic turns of events. I tried to feed the birds the leftover hot dog rolls this morning but they were having none of it. And to what end, that they would be a little bit more mine? Death death death death death. Agh! I can’t fucking take it. Just calm the fuck down.

OOT

Out of town, that is, through July 1. Well, not yet; right now I'm about halfway packed. There, I just packed some more, and cleaned out my totally shmawesome fanny pack. Now I am eating a soy ice cream sandwich with my left hand. Which brings us to the present: I'm not here! In the present when you're reading this, that is. Then again, I never am here when you're reading this, but that's not what I mean. What I mean is, I'm here typing this, but by the time you read this, the future will have already happened, and I will be gone. Oot! Oot, with no internet, even. It's like I'm going to outer space. I'll report back when I'm home; until then, sending (((cosmic vibes))).

Additionally

I know I say this every few posts, but sometimes I think I, uh, overshare on this blog. Not to mention the two books. (Heh.) But, you know, maybe I shouldn't blog about my burning rage all the time in public. It's not really the image I want to project. I was going for more of a "happy, successful, at peace, and in love with life" thing. Because only that will bring about the slow bitter death of my enemies!

I'm sorry, what?

Side effect of rage

= raging sinus infection.

Which is continuing to suck, and has caused me to miss several days of work, a trip to Coney, and a school visit I'd been looking forward to for weeks, but at least it's taught me a little lesson about running around too much, especially with toxic people who want to infect me with their bullshit. I swear to god, with the amount of time and energy I spent brooding over this latest bit of jackassery, I could have written another book, solved the problem of global resource disparity, and figured out what the hell happened on the season finale of Lost. Instead, I made myself sick.

So now I'm munching on some delicious antibiotics, and swearing that I've learned my lesson this time. No more hanging out with underminers. No more responding to emails designed to piss me off; just delete, delete, delete. And no more lunches, damn it -- I've got a full-time job, even if the hours are flexible. I've got another book to write, and global resources to redistribute, and I think I need to watch the scene where Sawyer comes out of the ocean shirtless a few hundred more times if I'm going to crack this Lost thing. I'll let you know how it goes.

Have You Filmed Her?

Bill, as the character of "Bill Scurry," on the set of the trailer for Have You Etc. Etc.

Me, as "Shelter Girl #3."

Spent the day in Williamsburg shooting a trailer for the book, produced and directed by the fabulous Jonny Stuyvesant of Milk Products Media, with special hair and makeup effects by Michelle Kearns. And I know, most people do their book trailers when their book comes out -- what can I say, I'm special. I did the Girlbomb trailer a year after publication, so this one is actually ahead of schedule.

It's been a creatively frustrating time for me lately -- none of my projects seem to be bearing fruit; whatever fleeting inspiration I have just evaporates on the page. I can't even blog satisfactorily these days -- I barely even update my Facebook status, that's how bad it is. So it was extra gratifying to spend the day creatively involved in something I feel good about, working with talented, organized professionals. I had so much fun, in fact, that I wore the makeup for "Shelter Girl #3" all the way home, and am sitting here at my desk blogging right now with the fiercest eyebrows, waiting for Bill to get off work so we can go get some Thai food and I can fill him in on everything that happened after he left the set this morning.

I'ma wear my eyebrows to Thai food, too.

Remember when I used to talk about myself all the time?

I kind of don't feel like it any more.

But here's an interview I did back when I was still all chatty and enamored of myself as a subject. Warning: Not safe for work!

Blah blah blah, me me me, etc etc etc

It's possibly the most hypocritical interview I've ever done, as it's for a website called Suicide Girls, which features pictures of naked women for the purpose of sexual gratification (or, as we sex-negative second-wave types call it, "porn"). So, yeah, there's me on a porn site. Talking about my book, Have You Plowed Her. By Anus Erlbuns.

The folks will be so proud!

Blogs are supposed to be weird and personal

There's a woman who goes to the gym in my building around the same time I do, most every morning. She is young, tall, blond, and thin, with a pinched face, like she begrudges every calories that makes it through her pursed lips. Her arms are wet ropes that swim from the sleeves of her t-shirt. It is obvious that she did not spend the weekend, as I did, eating dim sum, cheese blintzes, and gummy sharks.

I am usually on the treadmill when she gets there, and I note the time as she steps on the next treadmill over. 8:16. I have six minutes on her. So, there. She keeps her head down, starts her machine, then looks up at Good Morning America, with its ersatz subtitling, her earbuds in her ears like everyone else's. She runs with her elbows close to her body, like she's suspicious.

I look at my thighs in the mirror. There is dimpled flesh, out where people can see it. My knees have little flab hats. I should wear pants, or leggings, but I get too hot.

Also, I am old, and short. And married.

The first time she clambered up on the treadmill next to me, I had to smile. We looked like the two island castaways on the old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the ones who'd been without food for so long that they started to fantasize about eating each other, and they turned into a hot dog and a hamburger running around in a circle. She was the long, lean, elegant hot dog, sprinting away, and I was the little round hamburger guy, running after her on my stubby legs with an ax.

When running alone or outdoors, I sing along to the music I'm listening to, maybe every other phrase ("I won't change my life...just fine..."). When others are present, I limit myself to mouthing the words. It's weird, but everyone is weird at the gym; it's such a weird, personal thing to be doing, exercising in public. So I sing along without sound, and when the thin blonde comes in and takes her grim place on the next treadmill, I smile.

I smile because if I don't, I will feel such horrible jealousy and self-loathing that I will come to an abrupt halt and fall directly under the treadmill and be ground up to death in a gory industrial accident. I will seriously look over at her and hate myself for the full duration of the run, if I do not smile while saying to myself over and over, "I am happier this way. I am happier this way. I am happier this way."

I don't know what I mean by this. I mean that I am happier not dieting, that much is true. I could have that body -- I had that body, shorter, but with better breasts -- but I'm no longer twenty-three. And I don't feel like being hungry and cranky and resentful of people who actually allow themselves to eat. So in that respect I am happier this way.

I am happier this way. HAPPIER THAN YOU BITCH. YOU MAY BE THINNER THAN ME BUT I AM HAPPIER THAN YOU. LOOK AT ME, I'M SMILING. I'M ENJOYING MY RUN. I DO IT BECAUSE I ENJOY IT, NOT BECAUSE I WANT TO LOOK LIKE YOU. OKAY?

She runs for forty-five minutes. I smile the entire time. She gets off and I keep going; I'll do an hour to her forty-five. She leaves the gym with her sour, downcast look, and I flatter myself that she noticed me smiling, that it peeved her somehow. I win. I am happier this way. I win.

Pressing the Escape key

We're getting out of town for the next few days. Thanks so much for the comments on the previous post; they're much appreciated. I hope to be back to my old solipsistic, hyperconfessional navel-gazing self soon. In the meantime, thinking of you with gratitude and love.

Horrible internet funk

I am seriously thinking about quitting the internet.

Lying memoirist!

So I said I'd be posting more pontification on Friday, and I didn't, nor did I post this weekend. It's been kind of a hectic time around here, and I got caught up in trying to finish some freelance work -- judging a high school writing contest (which you can read bout here), finishing this story for Nerve (Dad, don't read this one), answering a bunch of emails. But I'm headed out to work soon, and I'm hoping to get to Ann's question (about going from non-fiction to fiction) today, and Luisa's question (about feeling guilty about writing personal things) tomorrow.

I'm also participating in a fundraising auction for the victims of the Dunbar Village rape case -- details of the auction are here on Tayari Jones's blog. You can bid on signed books, manuscript critiques from well-known authors, and more. Details of the case are also linked off Tayari's blog, but I caution you before reading them -- they are probably some of the worst things you'll ever read. Suffice it to say, the victims will require a lot of assistance, and I'm writing a check as well as signing some books to see that they get it.

Thanks as always, good people, for your patience and your support.