Cambridge Diary 3

Standing in traffic, dodging cars, holding laptop, trying to check my eMail. #surfthewifi

Finding an oil painting leaning next to a trash-can.

Learning that all UPS packages left in the foyer for more than a week will be opened, their contents inspected, and anything of value removed. (This due, it seems, to the fact that most such packages arrive after their intended recipients have been evicted.)

People moving out leaving behind all sorts of stuff on the Building Freecycle Table. Most often televisions, DVD players, and books of feminist theory.

Seeing four people get evicted in two weeks. All of whom had their parents with them to help them move. None of whom looked happy.

Finding myself in a three-piece suit, holding a firestaff, and in a public place where music is playing, all at the same time. The conspiracies of events tend toward the ridiculous.

For seven days and seven nights being unable to write a line worth reading – then waking one morning to find that my pen was like an instrument that had suddenly returned to tune.

Surpassing Randy Waterhouse #hunkofburninglove

Merciless Cryptrolling.

Listening to the Marshall Mathers LP. Twice. In the car. With my mother.

Firespinning burns that probably should have been treated in the emergency room. And would have been, if blacksmithing had not rendered me immune to feelings of heat-based pain.

The truck which, blaring uintelligble phrases from a loudspeaker, passes by – twice – every Monday morning.

The street-sweeper which follows it suggesting a relationship. If only this were not Boston, where correlation is not implied even by causaliy.

Unplanned late-night wanders past the Harvard Divinity School.

The wild roses behind the Divinity School having all died – but their scent lingering, blown about by the night wind.

Knowing with full certainty that I do not, in fact, need to get laid.

Febrile fantasies of an emotional intensity which I as a writer could only long to convey.

Lying on the grass in my courtyard. Falling asleep in the sun. Waking up hours later. Still not having a tan!

“You should become a furry… that way maybe you’d have more hair!”

Woman to her child: “Put you shoes on! Go on now, put them on before you step on a heroin needle and die!”

Listening to trauma nurses swap ER stories. Deciding I will never, ever get sick. Ever.

The thought that I might have found someone with whom I can discuss a fucking book.

Coming across a throwaway Milton reference in a novel from the fifties; spending an hour staring at the ceiling, pondering its implications, the book, and the world, forgotten.

“We don’t have many openings for project management or lead… how about data entry or part-time clerical?”

Some of my job interviews reminding me SCARILY of the prologue from Infinite Jest. Yes. Fuck.

An entire wall of my apartment, floor to ceiling, in Utamaro woodcuts. #itstarts

One month here and I still haven’t been into a bar. What is this?

The hard smell of the sidewalk after a cool rain.

The temptation to put my laptop to my window and play indie music, in the hopes of Pied Pipering cool kids to my doorstep. (The knowledge that this is retarded tying with the understanding that it also wouldn’t work.)

Realizing I’ve read near a dozen books this month. Quite by accident. Huzzah to unemployment!

Alternating between a fierce desire to prove myself, and a contentment with what I am.

Enjoy the alternation, very much.

Less than three.

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~ by davekov on 27 June 2011.

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