She Always Looked Happy that Year
Seal's popular 1995 hit "Kiss from a Rose" is, in fact, a waltz. I felt it necessary to point that out.
I made tuna salad just now and B.C. came hustling in, fur swinging and eyes bulging, despite his fear of the electric can opener. And I went to work this morning, yawning and sore, despite my fear of November. I should be blogging a novel. But after October's delightful onslaught of travel and parties, I'm shot. I'm done. And suddenly I'm glad to be catching up on responsible, domestic things like oil changes and spider trapping. Gary Shahan over at Weed and Pest gets paid for that sort of thing. Why don't I? And this afternoon I harvested round, spiny tumbleweeds on the trail to the pump house with swift kicks at their roots. Do you think I could sell them on ebay?
I love Andy. (Key quote: “He is the primordial mulch from which all cool in Manhattan sprang.” And now you don't have to read that article, because you got the condensed moral of the story from me.) I love all things Warhol, and it makes perfect sense to me that nearly twenty years after his death he's more popular than ever, being marketed in bulk to every facet of our fashionable lives. On the other hand, I also love Honey-Nut Cheerios, but that doesn't mean I'm going to glue them to my jeans and purse. Some things don't have a place in fashion. Andy's art was born for it.
This summer I missed recording too much to ever make up on the blog, which makes me sad. I've always enjoyed going back a few months or a year to see what I was doing and feeling. I'm hoping the photos not only pacify readers- and remember, I apoligized in advance for premeditated neglect of the blog- but the future me who will come back to see what she was up to, and find only the photos, waiting to be deciphered like hieroglyphics. Hopefully memory will serve and the emotions and in-betweens will be available.
Anyway, I intend to resume blogging at a more faithful pace now that things have calmed down. I can't promise anything, but you may take my good intentions and pave a road to Timbuktu (which is in Mali).
The pump in this house no longer grinds in the night, and the boiler no longer hisses. Instead, ghosts slam wrenches into the pipes overhead, drag wire coat hangers the lengths of said pipes, and swing merrily from the pipes on iron chains that slip and knock repeatedly. And I am becoming so good at sleeping soundly through any disturbance that I hardly hear them anymore.
I hate cinnamon bears, Tweety (whose name is attacking me), and Tinkerbell. Make of that what you will.
I made tuna salad just now and B.C. came hustling in, fur swinging and eyes bulging, despite his fear of the electric can opener. And I went to work this morning, yawning and sore, despite my fear of November. I should be blogging a novel. But after October's delightful onslaught of travel and parties, I'm shot. I'm done. And suddenly I'm glad to be catching up on responsible, domestic things like oil changes and spider trapping. Gary Shahan over at Weed and Pest gets paid for that sort of thing. Why don't I? And this afternoon I harvested round, spiny tumbleweeds on the trail to the pump house with swift kicks at their roots. Do you think I could sell them on ebay?
I love Andy. (Key quote: “He is the primordial mulch from which all cool in Manhattan sprang.” And now you don't have to read that article, because you got the condensed moral of the story from me.) I love all things Warhol, and it makes perfect sense to me that nearly twenty years after his death he's more popular than ever, being marketed in bulk to every facet of our fashionable lives. On the other hand, I also love Honey-Nut Cheerios, but that doesn't mean I'm going to glue them to my jeans and purse. Some things don't have a place in fashion. Andy's art was born for it.
This summer I missed recording too much to ever make up on the blog, which makes me sad. I've always enjoyed going back a few months or a year to see what I was doing and feeling. I'm hoping the photos not only pacify readers- and remember, I apoligized in advance for premeditated neglect of the blog- but the future me who will come back to see what she was up to, and find only the photos, waiting to be deciphered like hieroglyphics. Hopefully memory will serve and the emotions and in-betweens will be available.
Anyway, I intend to resume blogging at a more faithful pace now that things have calmed down. I can't promise anything, but you may take my good intentions and pave a road to Timbuktu (which is in Mali).
The pump in this house no longer grinds in the night, and the boiler no longer hisses. Instead, ghosts slam wrenches into the pipes overhead, drag wire coat hangers the lengths of said pipes, and swing merrily from the pipes on iron chains that slip and knock repeatedly. And I am becoming so good at sleeping soundly through any disturbance that I hardly hear them anymore.
I hate cinnamon bears, Tweety (whose name is attacking me), and Tinkerbell. Make of that what you will.
posted by A at
6:15 PM
3 Comments:
how can you hate cinnamon bears? have you ever had them dipped in chocolate? but i guess everything tastes better dipped in chocolate. mmmm...brussle spouts.
are they friendly ghosts? have you met any of them yet? i'm not sure i believe in ghosts really, but i've never met any. i had a friend who said he say "spirits" all the time. but i never really believed him.
it's so sad that it is november already. i feel like i've lost the whole summer and didn't even realize it! i hope next year goes by at a snails pace. i hate waking up and not remembering what i did in the last three months.
Yeah, how can you not like cinnamon bears???
Cinnamon bears taste like pain.
I will admit to being a whole lot more open to them when they're chocolate-covered, though. I'll give you that.
I can't believe how fast this year has gone, either. Scary.
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