2005-12-17 - 10:02 a.m.
Coffee and Special K with fucking strawberries. And god placed one foot on the ground and with the other lowered a basket and in the basket was a variety of crispy breakfast cereals and then god left, having done the godly thing.
I like Saturdays. More than Sundays. Sundays is the day before school starts back up for the week. Saturdays = anything's possible. What's possible tonight is that I'll go to two parties. DY and his wife Mary are throwing a DY Birthday and Mary's done grad school party. There will be a keg in the kitchen and people will bring foods. There is always a corn-based salsa at DY's parties. And someone always makes homemade pickles with too much vinegar. I feel a little vinegared today. Not in a nasty way, but I feel ready to make a little trouble. Get a little loud. After DY's party is Kevin's work's party. It should be cool. It's a big studio space by the Jones Falls, recently renovated and huge. Fucking huge, this place. The office itself, where they do the designing and meeting and talking, is half as big as the warehouse space I'm in. The shop is football-field big and the ceiling is 60 feet up. I went three years ago and they had a violinist playing solo up on a set of steps. And drugs.
My older brother still has no job. It's been two years and some months.
Three-quarters of my books are in a storage place in Norfolk. I wish I had them. And the one box that I brought with me is the box of Books That I Could Live Without. But I discovered this guy Edward Hoagland. He's written ten or so books of essays, memoir-type things. He's a perceptive guy, very attuned to people's anxieties and subtle movements and how they belie emotion. I'm reading this long essay now called "In the Country of the Blind," about how in his 50s he went legally blind and then had his sight restored by a crafty surgeon lady. He menaders like shit in this essay, so much so that I can't make out the structure. The through line is this: being blind sucks to I remember all the sights I used to revel in to making love is better when blind to my vision's been restored and life's great. But he takes so many side-roads that it's easy to get lost in his maze. I like it.
The other morning, I'd gotten dressed and went to the bathroom to kiss her goodbye. One arm was holding the towel secure and the other was working the toothbrush. She turned from the mirror when I walked in and gave me a toothpasty kiss and then began laughing, the white spreading across her lips. "What are you laughing at?" I asked. She couldn't talk because she was laughing. So I shrugged and kissed her again and left. When I got to my car, on Fleet Street, I saw my reflection in the driver's-side window. It had rained on us the night before, a hard, just-above-freezing rain that would've been snow had we been an hour north. So we must've fallen asleep with wet hair. My hair was everywhere, but mostly sticking straight up, in a hundred bunches of brown. I looked like Don King's cracked-out white stepson.
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