March 5, 2003
So Much Fruit, So Little Time
If I had my own place, I would always keep goetta and orange juice in the fridge. I would own travel coffee mugs, which would be more than frequently filled and carried along. I would put my nicer prints in frames and hang them at odd angles on the walls. I would play techno music in the very early morning and the very late at night. I would wear my shoes inside if I felt like it. I would buy a clock radio, a 4 cup Mr. Coffee, and a Playstation 2. I would watch The Fellowship of the Ring and play Resident Evil whenever I wanted.
But I don't have my own place. I don't even have a place. I can't count three different beds and sets of walls as any sort of home, I can only rank them in order of comfort and convenience.
I'm sitting here in Shriver center eating grapes and trying to waste the hour that would have been filled with my Spanish 202 class. It's always nice to arrive at a class to find that it is cancelled, but there is something certainly bittersweet about it when one gets up at seven a.m. for said class. I could be sleeping.
My doctor's visit yesterday proved fruitful, I suppose. All the troubles I am experiencing are, apparently, the effects of stress. The head aches, the random bursting into tears. I was instructed to sleep, journal, and attend to my diet. So, I am journaling. And, last night I went to Kroger's and bought fruit and bread and soup, and after eating what is a healthy dinner considering, I went to bed at eleven. I am going to shoot for eight hours every night, and hope that I approach this goal. I am also going to put in my two weeks at the Texas Roadhouse, as that is a source of amazingly potent stress. The libraries are hiring again. I'm going to become a sniveling, desperate applicant. I think the position suits me.
I wrote a poem that I really like. You might like it, too.
pump trap
i hear their heels click-clicking
to me
these are bullet sounds
cold contact concrete sounds
clutching greedy gunshot sounds
(click-click)
their boots virtual firearms
i'm pumped full of lead
the polished plate of the sun offers a reflection
casting my trembling shadow across the heated sidewalks
my boots do not warrant a cat call cursing death
i pass silently
a ghost beneath the sound
(...)
astera at 8:09 a.m.