A Fresh Start

It is good that I am busy, too busy to dwell on the nostalgia and frustration that hovers in the back of my brain. I've got to finish plowing through a book for class tomorrow morning, write a poem, begin a book review, and work. Yes, the nostalgia. epymetheus played me his favorite track "Carry Me Home" off of the new Hem album. Reindeer Section was playing when I arrived for dinner. I'm trying not to deal with an all too familiar issue until there is adequate time to fully get caught up in the mess that untangling it will cause. And..... also nostalgia...

I saw Nigel Slater read tonight from his new book "Toast." He is my favorite cookbook author. His "Appetite" is my favorite cookbook, for style, for writing, for recipes, for pictures. He was adorable, shy-ish, very English. (need I mention self-depricating?) Nigel is either the kind of 40 something year old man I could have a delightful affair with, or he's gay. This was his first ever reading and he was very good. He said he had been practicing in front of the cat. Only a handful of people showed up. I would have thought that this trendy up scale section of Oakland would have been more in the cooking loop. Ah well. I got to chat a little and he was delighted that I had brought my copy of Appetite for him to sign.

I was reminded of a redhead. I have been contastantly reminded of a vision left behind. KTOO. JLO. Polaris. Dawson. An entire life I once thought I would be returning to. It's good that I'm busy this week. Nostlagia and not knowing.

I just posted, I should be in bed. Should. Yeah, I said it. But I just read donkeyfly's latest post. It's her and automata that remember for me just how beautiful my home is. They write about it in such a way that I capture the smells, whether it's the mingled scent of rain and drunken men staggering from the bars or the smell of low tide mixed with rain. I feel the rhythms of a southeast alaskan summer. I remember the weight of trees, the gravity of water, the inertia of place whose inhabitants are constantly in flux. I remember the shape of the aurora over the mountains this time last year.

When I get exhausted my heart retreats to that place of absolute knowing. I ache for the certainty of comfort, of knowing not just where I fit, but how I fit and why.

I could go on about soil and water and sounds and history, but I'll spare you. It's late. Instead I am going to curl up in bed, finally, and dream of that boat ride I never got in June.

There was no sleep last night. Elliott, when not pressing his face wistfully up against the windows, gave me good snuggles. I had a dream about finding funding for my summer. I was writing publishers, asking if they wanted to donate money to my research. I must get on that: must figure out how to pay for summer.

I don't want to do any of the work that needs to be done. I am going to crawl back in bed for the rest of the morning. I can wallow in being sad for at least a day. Maybe I can find the tears I swallowed hard last night.

I've discovered that I am much more patient than I ever gave myself credit for. I am solid and steady - here is the fruit of my choices. As I was flying over Seattle on my way back to CA I realized that I would not change any of my choices. The flight over Seattle was amazing. I could see the route we used to take to Golden Gardens to walk the dog; there was Stone Gardens; the Fremont Bridge; EMP in all its shiny glory; Pike Place; and the Art Institute, which by the end of our time there I could get to with my eyes shut. A bitterweet flash back of Seattle, but I would not change my experiences for anything. Looking down out from the metal tube hurtling through the sky, I felt centered and I still feel that way.

What a great afternoon. Should've been studyin'. Read a chapter of queer Christian sociology and then got stoned with Adam and John. Delightful. Blew the afternoon and most of my evening. It's nice to sit with my thoughts, on my window seat, looking out at the lighs of Emeryville and San Francisco. Must do Latin. Will probably sit here for a while and be nostalgic for things that never were.

I am pleased with the group I am singing with. I am thankful that they accepted my rusty voice; may their patience be rewarded in 6 weeks time when the repeated use and application of my dull voice gradually becoming stronger and brighter blends with theirs in performance.

It is a blustery grey day here. I love it. Makes me want to do all of the work I *need* to do. I sit on my window seat and stare at a misty San Francisco, laptop open, Ani D. on the stereo. I think Ani's "Educated Guess" may be my new soundtrack. I feel as grey as the day, as blank as morning, as congested (mentally) as the city. I am heavy limbed from climbing for the first time in a year? A year and a half? Everyone here has gotten into it. It's the Adams' fault. I am reminded of Stone Gardens and a girl named Carly.