One week without a laptop. Without email.
Even unplugged, I can still think. Breathe. Function.
Two tatted gang memebers in the Starbucks waiting for their girlfriends to get coffee.
Reading grad school stories a lot of yesterday. One story about a girl who doesn’t like men with long hair. They seem scary. Really?
We are going to a place called Phlight for dinner, a couple professors and me and maybe Red Hen author Jessica Piazza, maybe Douglas Kearney, not sure. I like clever names for restaurants. There’s a bar I like in Long Beach called District Wine. That’s quite clever. If I owned a restaurant, it would have a tequila tasting room, and the place would be called Zorros. I would have the movie Zorro playing above the bar, like the Bubba Gump Shrimp place has Forrest Gump. I wonder if the actors make money every time you buy a shrimp.
If I spend too much time with people, I keep giving myself away and then I’m not sure if I’m still there or if I’m all over the street with tread tires on my back.
I count the days until my next day alone. Then I gather. I write in those slices of creative dreaming space/time like the breakfast air you breathe when you wake and you smell coffee and there’s bacon.
Our yard is buckets of jasmine. The oregano is coming up well. Blood orange blossoms cover the tree. We have a poet’s bench in our yard. The succulent gardens are doing well, but best of all, our roses are blooming.
I’m reading The Last Night at the Blue Angel by Rebecca Rotert who I met last summer in Nebraska. There’s how good looking we all need to be to get through our life and then there’s Rebecca, who is kicking it out of the park in the looks department. Like my friend Susie, Rebecca could make a bishop kick in a stained glass window. She’s married too. At the time, I mostly thought that her husband must look at her every day and think, how the hell did I get so lucky? But this book is in fact, quite amazing. My favorite book to date about the jazz era was Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje. I like Rebecca’s book, because you get to walk around and see the mother and the jazz era and Chicago through a child’s eyes and she walks around in the crawlspaces of life, the under porch places, and from there you can always look up and see under people’s skirts, and who doesn’t want that. I like the women leaning into each other and kissing while the music goes on, and then they start making music too.
My legs and ankles hurt, and I can’t wear heels.
I have this dinner to go to.
The trees here in Whittier are blooming pink.