Thursday, March 31, 2005

Nina did some private investigating (well, she emailed one of the librarians) about Aardvark's "very young" girlfriend. Apparently she isn't a student worker at all, just someone who works at the library, who Aardvark is in charge of. Nina suspects that she doesn't have a college degree, which would make sense -- A. would never date someone who might intimidate him intellectually, so a woman he could lord over with his masters degree would be perfect for him.

Also, Aardvark has always complained about Sarah Lawrence students being stupid and annoying -- so it all makes sense.

Last night Debbie asked me, "Do you guys really hate Aardvark?"

I don't. It just amazes me, how much he can irritate the shit out of me.


The Knitting Factory

Went to the Knitting Factory last night to hear John and Debbie play. John has a great voice, reminiscent of Leonard Cohen and Nick Cave. His songs are gothish affairs about sea captains and tunnels. The only problem was, his guitar-playing completely drowned out Debbie's keyboards. Otherwise it was a pretty riveting set.

Not many people showed up, unfortunately. Suzanne and Ero were supposed to come -- Dan told them they should meet John, and Jason invited them to the gig, but they were conspiciously absent. Christine was also supposed to come, but she was working late at that Ipod downloading/uploading company.

Am a bit pissed off. Someone (I'm assuming the human occupants of this apartment, rather than the feline ones) made waffles on my waffle iron, neglected to clean the grease and waffle crumbs off the griddles, and then dropped it on the floor. The little white latch keeping the waffle iron closed is completely gone, and there's another chunk of plastic missing. It wouldn't have been so bad if someone fessed up to it, but so far no one has. Jason thinks I should demand to know what happened to it, but I'm not in the mood for confrontations. Seems like there's already been so much this year, what with David and Aardvark.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Just wanted to mention that I am re-reading Kate Atkinson's Emotionally Weird. There are so many delicious descriptions in just the first couple of paragraphs. Here is a sampling of them:

"Small and thin, Terri was dressed, as usual, in the manner of a deranged Victorian governess. She had the pale pallor of a three-day-old corpse on her cheek and, despite the dark on the unlit stair, was wearing Wayfarer Ray-Bans" (17)

"I dressed as if for a polar expedition in as many clothes as I could find -- woollen tights, a long needlecord pinafore dress, several reject men's golfing sweaters that had been acquired in a St. Andrews Woollen Mill sale, scarf, gloves, knitted hat, and, lastly, an old beaver coat, bought for ten shillings in the pawn shop at the West Port, a coat that still had a comforting old lady smell of camphor and violet cachous about it" (22).

I have been referred to a Bronxville dermatologist. It sounds so decadent -- having to make an appointment for a dermatology check-up. Like I'm a vain, self-conscious woman convinced her life will be magically changed once she has a chicken pox scar removed from her face. The nurse practitioner at Student Health felt three lumps (thought I only had two!) below my collarbone, all perfectly aligned with where the seatbelt would have pressed during the car accident. She said the lumps are inside the layers of skin, not attached to my muscle or ribcage, and not at all related to my breasts either. That's a relief. She thought it might be a keltoid (sp?) or scar tissue, but was reluctant to tell me whether or not it was something to be worried about. Thus the visit to the dermatologist.

So I came out of Health Services with a referral, and two skeins of cheap baby yarn. The nurse practitioner is in charge of SLC's chapter of Linus' Blankets, a non-profit group who sews, knits, or crochets blankets for children in need. I noticed her handing out yarn and crochet needles to another student, and couldn't resist asking about it. So I'm planning on making a baby blanket. I'd eventually like to make a larger blanket for a teenager -- I assume that more baby blankets are being made than regular-sized ones, because they're both easier to finish and because everyone loves babies. But the yarn I was given is white with flecks of baby pink and blue -- so obviously material for a baby blanket. I will knit this one and see if I have any time for a second.

I came home to Brooklyn last night and found a plethora of cat toys in the living room. There's a lounger/cat bed in the shape of a leopard-spotted sofa, a strange gizmo consisting of wire and cardboard that Rue is addicted to, and a small tunnel with a cat toy dangling from the middle. I don't think Rue missed me very much at all -- she was too busy playing with all the new goodies. Some of the toys must have been meant to placate Carl, but he's as bad as ever. Last night he knocked a plant over in the bathroom, tried to urinate in the living room, and then did urinate in Nina's room.

I had a thesis meeting with Joan this morning. She said I have to finish the Irene story!! It is encouraging -- for someone to care so much about a circle of stories and characters. I have a little less than a month of thesis-writing left.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Tired -- left-over repercussions of the eight-hour bus ride from Buffalo. I thought I might enjoy a quiet day of pulling material from files and not working very much, but Dawn showed up at the office, and I will probably have to go to the library and pull microfiche files with her instead. The prospect doesn't please me very much -- it means actual work, and having to socialize with someone I've just met.

I have an appointment at Health Services this afternoon. It means I'll be getting back to Brooklyn later than I normally do, but Jason thought I should get the post-car accident lumps looked at, and he's probably right. Last night they hurt a lot.

At least I get to see Rue tonight! Yay. And Jason's coming to Brooklyn too.

I can't believe Spring Break is over. I don't really like I actually had one at all. And I'm not looking forward to workshop again, for no good reason other than I'd rather file quietly and listen to Tori Amos.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Easter in Dunkirk. This morning I went to a Unitarian Universalist service with Jason and his cousin. I liked some of the concepts (the encouragement of diversity, for one thing), but the strange mixture of watered down Christianity and new age-ism made me uncomfortable. The Jesus-as-good-buddy-fine-preacher-but-not-son-of-God sermon was also unsettling. Because anything that makes me uncomfortable makes me want to learn more about it, I will read up a little more about this sect of spirituality.

I'm much more comfortable with both the Quaker religion (services composed almost entirely of hymns and meditation) and the more contemporary non-denominational Christian services, although the latter strikes me as slightly strange, with its emphasis on religion via entertainment vehicles, and the conservativism couched within scripture poking up in many of the Christian churches I've attended.

This afternoon, we will go to Jason's cousin for an early Easter dinner. Then back to NYC in the morning, after another eight hour bus ride. I look forward to seeing Rue -- otherwise, there's not much about the City that I miss.

I've reached the thumb gusset portion of my fingerless gloves. Lots of stitch markers and increasing. I'm probably doing it wrong, but it's exciting nonetheless.


Thursday, March 24, 2005

Trying to figure out which knitting project to bring with me to Dunkirk. We're going to have an eight hour bus ride, each way, so there'll be plenty of time. My arm warmer is almost done, and I don't want to carry the remains of the yarn with me (3/4ths of a pound). I'm tired of knitting scarves, even though the one with cream wool and black eyelash yarn is almost finished. I'd like to start knitting something entirely new -- a pair of finger-less scarves or socks, but that would mean bringing a knitting book along with the project. So I don't know.

Cleaned the cat box, filled Rue's mega-feeding bowl so there's no chance of her going hungry while I'm gone, and packed my clothes. I want to pick up some vegetable dumplings for dinner, but Dumpling Man is about eight blocks from the bakery, where I'm supposed to meet Jason. I don't know if I want to lug my duffle bag and backpack all that way. But maybe I will. I'm a fanatic for those dumplings.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Knitting Update

Just wanted to mention that I finished one arm warmer, and am halfway through the second. It looks great, especially with the green and white self-striping yarn, but if I don't wear a long sleeved shirt underneath, it'll slowly slide down my arms.

I bought #2 dpns and a nice ball of sportsweight wool yarn in anticipation of my first knitting adventure into socks. We'll see how it goes.


I found a small chest of drawers on the sidewalk, about half a block from the apartment, and dragged it home with me. I was so proud of myself -- it felt like something a genuine New Yorker would do. Anyway, it's a beautiful piece of furniture, very stream-lined, Ikea-looking, but the individual drawers don't quite fit in its rollers. I'm going to need to buy a few small, thin pieces of wood to glue onto the bottom of each drawer for a tighter fit.

A dinner of Irish nachos, and The Lady Vanishes on the DVD player. I need to pack sometime tonight -- I go to Dunkirk with Jason tomorrow night.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

There have been problems with cat urination in this apartment. I think that Carl has been marking his territory -- in the living rom, and even in my bedroom, somewhere between the chest of drawers and bed. Does anyone out there know how to curb spraying? I guess it's not that big of a deal, as I only have two months of Carl cohabitating left, but I don't want my kitchen chairs and bed sprayed on in the meantime.

Monday, March 21, 2005

John said something about Aardvark that can be loosely summarized as: "You must get some satisfaction out of knowing that you don't have to wake up every morning and live his wretched life." He also mentioned the lone chicken patty eaten in the middle of the night, complete with snarfing and crumbs everywhere. John is fascinated by the chicken patty phenomenom.

He's right. But Jason called me a few hours ago with news that Aardvark has been telling someone else that Jason is so different because I'm suffocating him, or some such shit. It makes me irritated all over again, and even more irritated when I have to come into the school library and see his smug little face, and re-assess whether or not I really need that biography about Alice Paul or Jason's request for a Simone Weil book.

Jason doesn't think I should be angry anymore. He's right in that's it's a waste of time and energy -- both of which would be much more productively directed toward my thesis and other writings. But I can't help it. I never get angry in a calculated way -- I suppress and suppress until I'm so furious my anger is almost irrational.

No Marion at work today. Maria sat me down with a list of instructions, and then left me to boxes of student folders and The Beekeeper.

Rue wanted out of my bedroom at about five this morning, and the second I left her out, Carl waltzed in and vomited all over the floor. It was a disgusting early morning wake-up call. Jason says the apartment is beginning to reek, what with all the cat litter boxes, bowls of cat food, and what smells suspiciously like a male cat spraying in corners of rooms, marking his territory.
I am 90 pages into Patricia Highsmith's The Price of Salt. In the afterword, Highsmith writes that "I wrote some eight pages in longhand in my then current notebook or cahier. This was the entire story of The Price of Salt, as Carol was originally called. It flowed from my pen as if from nowhere -- beginning, middle, and end. It took me about two hours, perhaps less" (260). I feel that this is an apt way to describe the book, so far. Rushed, rudimentary prose with conspicious gaps in action (for example: how did Therese end up sitting so that Carol has to swing her legs over T's head?)and plot. Also, I am always skeptical about characters who go on and on about loving someone without giving any evidence for this love. Why does Therese hang on to Carol like a lost puppy-dog, when frankly, Carol is cruel and snide and distant? I understand that Therese is young and naive. Yet these qualities don't seem like enough evidence for her complete devotion.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Acorn squash stuffed with walnuts, brie, butter and brown sugar for dinner tonight, with rice and fava beans. Jason and I are in Brooklyn, having escaped the wrath of Aardvark in Astoria. There was another confrontation this morning, probably the last. And I claim responsibility for it: if I hadn't been so upset with Aardvark all Saturday night and Sunday morning, Jason wouldn't have been so upset, and he probably wouldn't have said anything to A. But I'm beginning to understand Dan's need to get away, out of the city, out of the country even. Being in such close proximity with Aardvark is a constant reminder of how much of an ass he's been to all of us these past ten months. We are such fucking tolerant and understanding people, letting him get away with everything he's said and done.

These offenses include:

Calling me a "ho" during fall registration (in front of Marion, the Assistant Registrar, and all the students registering for classes), and then repeatedly saying that I "stole his best friend from him."

Saying that Jason will probably end up a drug-addict, drunk, or burn-out, because (supposedly) these are the only people he knows and grew up with.

Ad naseum comments about being "a professional," having a "real" job that makes it impossible for him to do any household chores, and snide remarks about a "two year siesta" that apparently everyone but he has taken.

Repeatedly trying to convince Jason to break up with him. Complaining about our relationship to anyone who would listen.

This list could go on and on and on. I guess I'm saying that every other sentence out of his mouth is offensive in some way to someone.


The Brooklyn apartment is peaceful, though. The smell of squash baking in the office, three semi-well-behaved cats, and my new knitting project (four-needle arm warmers, which I plan to attach to a short-sleeved t-shirt). Mastering double-pointed needles means I can go on to mittens and socks -- yay!

Saturday, March 19, 2005

It's All About the Food

My two new obsessions? Cream puffs at Beard Papa, with flaky crust and a light filling that tastes more like whipped cream than heavy custard. I like that the place is called Beard Papa, such a dirty dirty name for a cafe. I don't think it's any accident that the sign explaining the function of the cream-filling machine also (albeit implicitly) has smutty connotations. And I appreciate the daily specials. In the case that I ever tire of a vanilla filling, I can try the more exotic offerings.

And then there are the vegetable dumplings at Dumpling Man. Finely chopped shitake mushrooms and other yummy, less identifiable veggies/tofu products, seared or steamed in a green dumpling, served with a soy-like sauce.

Of course, this doesn't mean that I've lost
any love for the pumpkin cupcakes at the Lower East Side bakery, or for Punjabi's cheap and deliriously good vegetarian fare.

I'm supposed to be in Astoria in thirty minutes, which means I should have gone to the subway station at least half an hour ago. Instead I'm lazing around the apartment, still in my "Mint Fresh" pajama bottoms (though to my credit, I have thrown on Jason's army-green pullover), listening to The Beekeeper. Rue fell into the bathtub today in a fit of overzealous water-gazing, and I bundled her up into my room, cranked the space heater on, and spent an hour or so cat-napping with her. Then I decided to do some last minute e-mailing and adding to my list of read books, and realized that the chronological listing of the books means that I only focus on the most recent reading clumps, and could very well be reading books I've already read. I know that sounds kind of ludacrious, but I read so many books each month it's sometimes hard to keep track. That's why I started the booklist in the first place: I found myself borrowing library books and reading the first few pages, only to realize that I'd already read them.

So-- I started a very elaborate reading list spreadsheet
, in author alpha order, to supplement my chronological book list. I added forty-five books before realizing how tedious the process was -- I felt like I was back at the Registrar's office.

I still need to make the bed, comb my hair, get a backpack of stuff together,
drink a glass of cran-raspberry juice, maybe eat something.


Friday, March 18, 2005

Illicit Typing

Feel somewhat better. Am typing this between more diploma/Excel work. Got to take a walk to the Controller's Office, and stopped to pick up a toffee ice cream bar on the way. Weather is nice -- not too warm, not too cold. A little boy was playing kickball on the front lawn. And Jason just emailed me a sweet note.

There are quite a few people in this diploma pile who haven't graduated because of a bursar's hold of a couple hundred
dollars, or overdue library book fines. That seems like such a waste -- to spend so much money on this expensive college, just to not get your degree. I wonder if these folks sometimes have nightmares about their diplomas, locked away in the Registrar's Office, slowly disintegrating over the years.

Nervous Breakdown Land

Wretched, wretched, wretched. I'm running out of loan money, Pat Dunn insists that she can't withdraw me from that elective class and add transfer credit, and the library computer terminals smell like heavy-duty floor cleaner. I got to Jason's apartment last night and cried for almost an hour, convinced that I wouldn't have enough money to move in with him, that I'd have to go back to Kentucky with my tail tucked between my legs. He did a great job of reassuring me last night, but apparently I need him to be with me more or less constantly right now.

I want to tell Marion I'm sick and go home early, to sweet Rue and my reassuring cave of a room, but that would mean less money for me. And I need as much money I can get.

The food workers at the Pub forgot to add mayonnaise to my chicken salad sandwich. It tasted more or less like wet cardboard, with a slice of tomato and onion. Not that I'm very hungry right now, anyway.

Aardvark brought his girlfriend to the Registrar's office this morning, but neglected to introduce her, or usher her into the office. She spent his whole visit hovering in the hallway. And yes, she does look awfully young and unsure of herself.

Meanwhile, work is as dull as ever. Today I'm checking academic statuses on old (some as old as 1984) diplomas.

But -- my novel is going well. Almost six pages now.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

The Dream Life

I woke up late this morning with a partially shaped novel in the form of a dream. There was the introduction of a gun, a highly dysfunctional family, and all sorts of squelchy subject matter. I stayed in bed for an extra forty-five minutes, jotting everything down.

I know this potential novel has evolved from my growing irritation/anger/bitterness toward Aardvark, that so un-charming
asshole in all of our lives. There are fable-like qualities to the plot line, and an oppressive atmosphere reminiscent of Jeffrey Eugenide's Virgin Suicides and Kelly Braffet's Josie and Jack.

So perhaps there's an upside to knowing Aardvark, after all. We'll see if this novel idea can be nurtured into an actual first draft
. I have so many partially formed novels lying around in unfinished states (first drafts, handfuls of chapters, character sketches. Sometimes I feel like I am cultivating a novel graveyard).

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

blog post 31605

today, in the land of lendi wee mario the infamous six year old humper (he being 6, not that he is in the habbit of humping 6 year olds), finished 3 pages of math and then hit the floor with his hot wheels and threatened to smack my face!!!

other news include the ginger ale
burps.

in the future there will be plenty of biting...

(by guest blogger jason)

Monday, March 14, 2005

Buffy-verse

It's almost 9:00 in the evening, and I should be working dilligently on my thesis, but instead am playing Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Chaos Bleeds. I can't stop playing until I kill Adam, cyborg villain of Season Four, and am able to save my progress. The thing is, Adam keeps killing me. This has become a very frustrating cycle.

That's another thing I forgot to mention about Atkinson's Not the End of the World. In addition to recurring characters popping up in surprising ways, Buffy the Vampire Slayer was mentioned in at least four different stories. Part of me was delighted, because I love Buffy, and applaud the insertion of Buffy into any zany short story. On the other hand, I feel Atkinson used Buffy as a kind of lame short hand for dealing with the tragic events in her characters' lives. For example, at the end of one story, a main character reflects that Buffy was brought back from the dead, only to have to pay the bills, raise her younger sister, and face all the bleak responsibilities of the world. The Buffy plotline mirrors the character's own circumstances. It seemed awfully convenient.

Or I may have it all wrong. Maybe Atkinson was making a profound statement about humanity, and how much easier it is to relate to characters on the television screen than to real people in our own lives. I'd like to think this was the case, but I remain sceptical.

Oh well. I still really love Atkinson's books. They have all been consistently surprising and wonderful.

Killed again by Adam! I wish my brother were nearby, so he could beat the level for me and I could get on with the thesis business.

Leftover stir fry for dinner tonight, with tofu and rice and baby corn. Kind of bland -- I think I should have used more soy sauce.

Spring

It's spring break, and although snow is still on the ground here in Bronxville, I can feel spring approaching. Good. I'm sick of death of my now less-than-white puffy winter coat, of always misplacing my gloves and being bored of my scarves. I think a little sun will be a welcome variation.

I'm on my lunch break at the Registrar's (Marion has already gone home for the day, and left me with work for perhaps another hour and a half -- so I'm wondering how I will spend the rest of my afternoon, what ridiculous chores I'll invent for myself to still appear like I'm working), checking e-mail, avoiding unsavory library work staff, printing out more revisions of my thesis.

Just finished Kate Atkinson's short story collection, Not The End of the World. It's quirky and fun to read (I especially liked "Temporal Anomaly," a story about a woman who dies in a car accident, spends six months in limbo at home, and then is suddenly, mysteriously given her life back ... only to have snatched away again), but Atkinson is much more adept at novel-writing. I'd really like to re-read Emotionally Weird and Behind the Scenes at the Museum .

At Posman Books this morning, I impulsively purchased two books found in the mystery section: Patricia Highsmith's The Price of Salt and another book called The Lake of Dead Languages. I've never been one for mystery novels. When I was in high school, in an idle reading phase (a short-lived one, by the way), I read all these books about a man and his cat who went around solving murder cases. It was like reading cotton candy -- amusing, but not very filling. I hope these mystery novels are better choices than the man-cat detectives. Highsmith's Ripley books were definitely more literary than the run-of-the-mill mystery novel, and Nina recommended The Price of Salt. I read a positive review for The Lake of Dead Languages on Amazon.com about a year ago, and was swayed by the comparison of it to Donna Tartt's Secret History on the book jacket (another book I'd like to re-read in the future). Also, I just get impulsive in bookstores.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Perplexing

I don't understand certain women, the ones who date overbearing, obnoxious, mean men, and eventually marry them, allowing their husbands to rule over them with iron fists. I know it probably has to do with the way they were raised (perhaps abusive families), and of course societal influences. And I'm certainly sympathetic. But ... I still don't understand.

This very generalized statement, of course, refers to a very specific incident(s) that I can't mention here.

Wow, this entry is so vague.

It's a beautiful day in Astoria. Jason and I are going to cook tilapia and watch a movie.

Friday, March 11, 2005

Throwing What?

This comment will make most Throwing Muses fans cringe, but I really like Tanya Donelly's music. Sometimes, in fact, I like it better than Kristin Hersh's solo work. And I also really enjoy quoting Whiskey Tango Ghosts in this blog. Here's another, from "My Life as a Ghost":

these days are sweet and strange
we're happy in our star-scattered way





Waffling

After test-driving my new waffle iron for a very late brunch, I have come to the following conclusions:

1. The waffle batter recipe included in the directions is inadequate, and yields waffles of the non-fluffy variety.

2. Waffle making isn't as simple as I thought it would be. Just making sure there is equal levels of batter on the grid was a challenge.

3. The iron was a bitch to clean.

4. I prefer waffles from Mike's Diner. Any diner, really.

I haven't given up completely, but this whole waffle business will take a lot of practice. Time and effort I probably don't have, as the due date for my thesis is tick-tick-ticking its way closer and closer.

My laptop's not helping matters, either. I was just in the middle of further revising "The Mary Museum," and simultaneously writing a few more pages of "Bouquet" and "Moments of Being," when winword mysteriously decides to stop working. Bye bye, thesis.

Old movies watched: Crime of Passion (Barbara Stanwyck). Just one big silly cliche.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

This Tangled Thesis

More thesis delirium. I gave up an evening with Jason and Netflix to stay at home and wrestle with words. So far, I'm happy with only half of my thesis (and admittedly, I'm sort of escastically happy with the stories in this half. They're very nearly finished ... and I've never felt as if I've truly finished a story before. They're so finished I think I'll actually submit them to literary journals).. The other half is ... well ... a delicate, tangled, weird mess. My untitled, two-part story is still untitled, and needs its second part. "The Mary Museum" seems clunky overall, and as of yet I can't write an ending that I'm satisfied with. "Guitar Lessons," which will soon be titled something else, is comparably better, but its shape is awfully unwieldly and choppy. It feels like a house built by Picasso, without my intending it to.

But I have deliriously weird Rasputina albums to listen to, and a warm kitten sleeping Buddha-style on my knee. Oh, and a brand-new waffle
maker to test out tomorrow morning.

The Infinite Laundry Blues

Seems like I'm going to the laundromat incessantly these days. Which isn't so bad today, because the laundromat is empty. No jostling for dryers, or those horrible creaking metal carts. Just a few Irish women folding clothes and discussing a bar they went to on Avenue A.

The manager must think I have an obsession with clean clothes. Which I do, kind of. Sort of. Okay, I do. I admit it. I like clean clothes. I don't like to wear jeans or shirts more than once. Wearing something more than twice (with the exception of pajamas) makes me feel grossly grungy.

Carl the orange cat is making a somewhat smooth adjustment to the household, other than trading a few swats with Rue (who shadows him relentlessly) here and there. At the moment he's lounging on one of the red circle rugs, looking content. There is a bit of a contraversy about whether he is the actual orange cat who lives next-door (he looks slightly different to me, and Nina had an email conversation with Sara Smith, the girl who lived here before I did, who didn't seem to think he was the same cat either). I guess it doesn't really matter. Carl was definitely a hungry stray in need of a warm home, and now he has one.

On other news, I am halfway through Case Histories, which is fantastic. I recommend that everyone read it.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Black and White Photographs

I didn't go to school today. I'm not exactly sick yet, but my joints and muscles feel tender and weird, and I think I have a low-grade fever. When my body is in this state, it's best for me to just stay home and rest.

The orange cat is in the house. According to the records on the kitchen table, he's been properly innoculated, and I'm glad he's been rescued from the cold, but I still feel a little miffed that no one called me last night to let me know. I wonder how dramatic the rescue scene was. Was it really a two-person job?

Also, his name appears to
be Carl. He is in hiding, and looks shell-shocked.

A bundle of writerly nerves. Started reading Kate Atkinson's Case Histories, which is extremely good and has such a compelling beginning -- three chapters about three families, all ending with tragedy. Atkinson has an acute sense of pacing and plot -- I remember this from her other novels as well -- she knows exactly when to insert the next shocking tragedy. I should try to learn something from her, since my Gabby/Liz novel has been water-logged from just this thing -- not knowing where to situate the tragedies. Too close together, and it overwhelms the reader (and the characters as well -- an entire cast of overwrought characters being too much of a soap opera for my tastes). Too far apart and the novel may lag. I'm reconsidering weaving the Gabby/Liz novel with the Isobel/elf novella I was writing. I think it may lead to some interesting results, but I'll have to be very careful about the strands connecting the two stories.

So I'd like to start re-writing that, but of course
I need to revise the beast (oh, okay, the thesis really isn't that much of a beast). And I'd also like to write a story about a protagonist who keeps finding mysterious black and white photographs of an unknown girl stuck in the pages of his (or her, don't know yet) books. This stems directly from buying a copy of The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll: The Search for Dare Wright at the Strand for a satisfying $12.50 (beats the $24.00 for a new copy), and finding a black and white photograph of a long-haired girl in old-fashioned dress slipped into the first few pages. The girl, who looks a lot like Leor, is standing in the middle of what looks like a wilderness. It appears that she has four arms, two resting at her sides, and two extended in mid-air. I wonder if it is the same girl in the photograph Judson found in his book, also purchased from the Strand.

Maybe it's a kind of avant-garde art statement -- or maybe this girl just enjoys hiding her pictures in used books, like some erstwhile Easter bunny.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Tedious

I feel frustrated. SLC is giving me difficulty about transferring credit and striking the literature elective from my transcript. Yet during the summer, I spoke to Susan Guma and she said it wouldn't be a problem.

Also, I have to send payment to U of L for a transcript. Blah. Blah blah blah.

Otherwise my day has been fine. I slept well, went to work in good spirits, had a successful conference with Myra
(she also thinks "Irene and the Pale Man" is nearing completion, and that I only need to finish my "house-cleaning," i.e. making the sentences as succinct as possible), ate some lovely leftover chili for lunch. And tonight I'll be with Jason again, which is definitely good.

Old movies watched:
A Letter to Three Wives, The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (Barbara Stanwyck).

Monday, March 07, 2005

No Snappy Title Today

So I finished Vita and Harold on the N train to Brooklyn this morning. It was very enjoyable, though I remain troubled about the couple's racism (for example: Nigel refers to himself in an earlier letter (pre-WW2) as a British Hitlerite). When I was younger and more idealistic, knowing that a writer was a bigot would be enough to pretend myself from reading his/her work. Now I feel much more ambiguous. How much of a product of their culture were V and H? And at what point does it become inexcusable, less of a societal issue and more of a personal one?

I went to Target after the subway ride and bought:

A Belgium waffle iron for $10
shampoo
a mega-pack of wet cat food
a snappy black and white zip-up hoodie
a black underwire bra
a copy of A Letter to Three Wives, which, by the way, is quite good

Now I'm critiquing Sarah's story and watching a Biography segment on Linda Darnell. I should be writing, or at least revising some part of my thesis, but I can't bring myself to today. I miss Jason (we had a love-ly morning together), and I don't feel like going to work tomorrow morning.

Oh, and I started Vita's No Signposts in the Sea. It's very good, but the following description made me feel quite ill:

"And the three giant Jewesses who lean so close, gossiping, that it looks as though their noses must get hook together" (9).

Ugh.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

More Vita


Oh my darling Hadji, how much one dislikes growing older! I know how you hate it. You know how much I hate it. But I think the reason we both hate it is a double reason: the superficial reason is the physical reason, that one gets fat and bald and what-have-you, in the American phrase, but the real deep reason for us, you and me, is that we hate the idea of leaving Life, as we must, twenty to thirty years hence, and we both love life and enjoy it.

--Vita to Harold, pg 410

Old movies watched: Sudden Fear (Joan Crawford)

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Dumplings and cream puffs

I'm naughty. I skipped out on Collette's friend's get-together at Prospect Park because I woke up feeling my normal shy, anti-social self. Despite Nina and Jason's best efforts to guilt-trip me into going, I decided against it. Instead Jason and I went in Manhattan. We went to Jason's bank, ate a boxed lunch at the Lemongrass Grill, and visited John at the Union Square Farmer's Market (there was a stand selling $1 bags of great-looking apples, but I didn't get any -- didn't want to have to lug that around for the next couple of hours). We went to the Strand, where I picked up a copy of Vita's letters to Virginia Woolf, and one of her earlier novels. We stood in a ferociously long line to try a cream puff at Beard Papa's. It's such a quaintly Japanese establishment, with girls named Sachiko wearing white chef hats handling elaborate cream machines. The cream puffs were very good -- I had vanilla, and Jason chocolate. We went to Dumpling Man for steamed vegetarian dumplings to bring back to Astoria. And now we're at the Internet Cafe off the Ditmars subway stop, where Jason is getting tickets for our Easter trip to Dunkirk.

Nina and I were almost successful in luring the orange cat into the apartment. I grabbed him while he was eating a can of tuna on the windowsill, but Nina freaked out and told me to set the cat on the kitchen floor -- so we could see if he wanted to stay with us. But naturally he did not -- he was more than a little freaked out, and quickly jumped back onto the windowsill.

More Aardvark drama. Jason a little upset. Hope there won't be anymore confrontations in the near future.

Friday, March 04, 2005

The Black and the White

By the way, this is what Vita looked like.


Daily Events

In my over-enthusiasm about Vita and Harold, I forgot to write about the current events in my life. Last night Jason and I went to Sylvia's, a great soul food restaurant in Harlem. At first I was a little reluctant to go, because Harlem can be a pretty scary place, especially at night. But it was great. We both had fried chicken over waffles, with a side order of garlic mashed potatoes. Everything was perfect. The chicken breast moist and flavorful, the potatoes and waffles wonderful. Yum.

Then we went home, and J and Aardvark had a bit of a row. There was a nasty note, and some screaming, and apparently some e-mailing afterwards.

I got back to Brooklyn this morning and found that Collette rearranged the kitchen and living room. It's great. There's some much more space, and I spent a drowsy couple of hours reading what else and eating dill mustard tilapia while waiting for the plumber/Jacob to show up.


Now Rue's sleeping on the frog and chick pillow, and I'm waiting for Jason. "The Gilmore Girls" is playing on my PS2. Everything is very nice.


Maybe I Spoke Too Soon

"I do not think one could conceive of a love more exclusive, more tender, or more pure than that I have for you. It is absolutely divorced from physical love -- sex -- now. I feel it is immortal. I am superstitious about it, I feel it is a thing which happens seldom. I suppose that everybody who falls in love feels this about their love, and that for them it is merely a platitude. But then when one falls in love it is all mixed up with physical desire, which is the most misleading of all human emotions, and most readily and convincingly wears the appearance of the real thing. This does not enter at all into my love for you. I simply feel that you are me and I am you -- what you meant by saying that you "became the lonely me" when we parted." -- Vita to Harold, pg 216

A Perfect Marriage?

In the introduction to Vita and Harold, son and editor Nigel Nicolson writes this: "My main purpose has been to show the companionship of two very different people developed over these fifty years, and how their marriage survived crises, sexual incompatibility and long absences to become a source of profound happiness to both" (4). I just don't know about that. Vita and Harold seemed to be good companions for each, but wife and husband? Not so much. There are letters when Vita even mentions her frustration at society, for insisting that everyone be married off -- she would have been perfectly happy just living with Harold, rather than being his wife.

I suppose they were happy. It's hard to tell from letters. They went long months without seeing one another. They took separate holidays with other people. At times they both seem unnecessarily cloying with one another -- Harold's letters are at times extremely simplified, as if he doesn't believe Vita of comprehending what he has seen and his experienced. And in Vita's earlier letters, she is constantly referring to "how nice" Harold is. I don't see how Vita could have possibly seen "nice" as a good quality.

Of course I am only halfway through the book. Maybe at the end of it all, after the affairs with Violet and Virginia Woolf, and Harold's indiscretions, their marriage will indeed seem ideal.

I'll end with a random Harold excerpt:

"Virginia is quite right about your ridiculous diffidence. It is the same part of you that makes you shy at parties, makes you creep into corners and hide there, and stay there all evening so as not to be seen. But it is absurd you being diffident about your writing since you have such a compelling literary gift. I think you are a late flowering plant in the sense that it will be your fruit which will be important rather than your blossom" (205)

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Braving the Elements

Guess it's that time (sigh) to get ready to leave the apartment. I hate riding on the subway -- I feel like I have to put on a semi-tough, detached mask everytime I step onto the platform. I hate the scary, vast Clinton-Washington stop on the G train. I hate the four and a half blocks it takes to walk there in the first place. But I can't stay inside like a hermit, however much I'd like to. I'll throw Vita and Harold and a change of underwear into my backpack and make my way to the City.

The mopping and excessive use of Mr. Clean seems to have kept another wave of ant invasion away. For the moment, at least.

Have been listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter all day long, for no better reason than being too lazy to change the CD.

Vita, Vita, Vita

I need a haircut. Pretty desperately. My hair is straggly and shoulder-length and refuses to be tamed by any amount of conditioner and smoothing products (which I applied way too much of today -- eww). At least it smells good -- Garnier Fructis x 3.

Today I made brunch for Jason, mopped the kitchen, living room, and hallway, and cleaned the bathroom. Took a long, meandering bath. Put more books I want on my Amazon wishlist. That's about it. I had grand plans of writing this afternoon, but I guess that's not going to happen. I need to meet Jason at Housing Works in a few hours.

Given up on Peter Ho Davies' Equal Love. "Hull Case" was a good story, but I've already read it. And the next two stories are mediocre at best. So now it's onto Vita and Harold. Oh, and here's a quote from a very young, exuberant Vita to her fiancee:

After all, I am not sorry not to know you better, it makes it even more fun your being a terra incognita. We will find each other out gradually. You will be disappointed.
There is no fun equal to being
quite
at the beginning of things.
Is there?
(27).


I Heart Libraries

Books recently checked out from the SLC library:

1)
Suits Me: The Double Life of Billy Tipton

2) Bigfoot Dreams (Francine Prose)

3)
The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicolson

4) The Gnostic Scriptures (for Jason)

5) Not the End of the World (Kate Atkinson)

They had Kate Atkinson's Case Histories as well, but I didn't have enough room in my backpack for one more chunky hardcover book. Next time.

Poor Gelsomina!



I saw Fellini's remarkable La Strada a few nights ago. What an amazing film. I can't stop thinking about Gelsomina and her plight as assistant (and emotional and physical punching bag) to strong man Zampano. The cinematography is amazing as well. The shots of their rickety motorcar wagon travelling down the long road alone merits a trip to the video store to rent this. And yes, I do mean you.

Jason, John and I plan on seeing Nights of Cabiria tonight, another Fellini film starring Giulietta Masina. This after a trip to Harlem for the infamous fried chicken and waffles at Sylvia's. Can't wait.

Surliness Ala Carte

It's ironic that Aardvark*, the tool of all tools, has the nerve to call all other straight men (and some gay men too) tools.

*a ridiculous pseudonym for the most ridiculous man I know.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Ridiculous Social Anxieties

I don't know why I'm so shy sometimes. I just am. Like last night, when I couldn't knock on John's door to tell him we were going to watch Nights of Cabiria on Thursday instead. I really couldn't do it -- I felt like puking first. School is also still somewhat of a challenge, especially since I'm mostly out of the loop with the other folks in my year (who I used to hang out with sometimes when I lived in Bronxville).

At least I'm no longer so shy I refuse to talk to my relatives. Or to answer the phone. Though Jason can attest to the fact that sometimes I don't call people when I should ...

Sometimes I think it takes infinite patience for Jason to deal with this neurosis. Thank God he's a very patient man.