A Random Diary Page

* The combination of two shots of bourbon, wood smoke, being hungry and dehydrated makes me feel wooden, dry and crackly. Tung oil, turpentine. Definitely hardwood; a wardrobe.
* It is easier for me to say that I am a wardrobe than that I am a writer. They said in the writers’ group that I had to start self-identifying as a writer, and I have been trying, but there is always a small blue-collar giggle inside. The giggle believes that “writer” is not a job.
* I saw a wonderful ballet production, Cinderella set to Prokofiev. The prince sat on his rocking toy steed and went rocking all over the countryside, looking for his blonde doll. Dancers pushed countryside debris around. The prince rides his horse, and stuff goes by. A sheep on wheels, a potted ficus, a crew of rabbits playing drums.
Some people would say, What? Drumming rabbits? This is crazy. I don’t get it.
Some people would say, This is crazy, but I get it.
Some people would say, This is not crazy.
Those are writers.
* A writer is not a job, it is a brain flaw. Whereby the curtain between the sane and the crazy has holes.
* It saddens me how many people are incurious. They listen only to music that they have already listened to, don’t do the things they never do, will not watch any show of which they are not already a star.
Definitely an issue in Russia my homeland, what with the endless frenzied Disco of the ’80s.
But here in the U.S. as well.
They listen to the classic rock radio station on the way to work, every day, every year. It plays ten songs and two are Motley Forking Cru. Rock on Garth.
* My daughter brought a friend to her choral rehearsal. Did you like it, dear? No. How come? You guys sing too high, and I can’t sing that high. Did you like listening? No, it was like four hours long. (One hour.)
We played music from my daughter’s iPod in the car. Stromae. Why am I listening to a song in French if I can’t understand the words? We switch to a Russian pop song. I can’t understand the words either! My daughter translates the lyrics. I don’t get it! Well, it’s about a girl who was a nice little blonde but then colored her hair black and became a menace. But what is the point of this song? Well, as we said it is about a girl who colors her hair…But what is the POINT of this song, though? OK, we can switch to something else.
Four bars of Franz Ferdinand. Next! Four bars of Band of Skulls. NEXT! Do you have anything that I, like, know? What do you have?
You know, honey, I’d love to play a personal DJ to you but we are home already.
Dude. The incurious, they start early.
How do we sell curiosity to them? Can we tell them that learning new things prevents Alzheimer’s? They got people to take fish oil, somehow.
* I got so much better at being myself in the past five years. Also, I got better at being. I look at my young photos: I was un-pretty, all body and a small unsure squirming person inside. I remember that hell.
* Some reasons people accept others’ opinions as own. One: a placeholder opinion. We know we need one on the subject, we have not developed our own yet, we’ll use this one in the interim. Two: we think it makes a good costume. Three: if we don’t accept this opinion, the pitchfork society will kill us.
* There comes a time in a marriage where one or the other must fly to the Moon, because twenty years of the same two people with the same jobs and same curfews are a beer swamp. Pass me the third beer and get the hell out of my eyesight.
* If there was a way to stick Post-its on already accomplished slights, fights, impasses, misunderstandings, especially repeat ones, why that would be most helpful. Easier to keep a tidy office.


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