March 11, 2004
Let's Pretend We're Dead
My Spring Break has officially started a day early, though I will be driving back up to Oxford tomorrow to deposit money into my bank account. Going to my class? Hell no.
I feel sort of zombie-like, this afternoon as surreal as some sort of grainy sixties horror film. Maybe Mike will come home wearing a gruesome plastic mask.
You know what I mean? Like, scary only in the unsure nature of the next few frames of the film, as opposed to anything remotely terrifying about everything that has come before?
Maybe we could take a nap and get up later, make some dinner, or go out for coffee. One or the other of us get our asses whipped at Gin Rummy. Or Scrabble.
Though, believe it or not, it's usually me who loses at Scrabble. I don't know what it is. I just don't look at the board the same way he does, and I don't know enough 4 to 5 letter words.
I try to use all 7. You know, like days of the week.
I'm yawning and all of a sudden these stale thoughts are sucked into my mouth, sprung from the keyboard, old poems traveling down my windpipe into my belly. Coffee cake and cranberry juice and weak metaphor. Nourishment.
There's nothing better than an empty evening, so potent, than one followed by an equally free morning.
Maybe next week. For now... I'm delving deep into sheets and self and Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.
astera at 6:00 p.m.