Onward, Literary Soldiers!

I have been encountering a genre of literature that seems to be asking me the same question.

Initially, it disguises itself as being rational, realistic, and postmodern. It presents the plain facts for logical, modern-day readers who believe that the world is scientifically ordered. Many like to read literature like this. I do. It makes sense. I'm educated! I know bullshit when I see it!

However, at the end of the day, after tucking me into my literary security blanket, these novels whisper a disconcerting question into my ear: what if magic is real? And if it is, are you able to accept it?

It almost questions my soul: are you insipid and lifeless, or are you able to accept the mystery?

Literature seems to be enticing me back to enchantment. It tries to be unassuming, but I have the feeling that it wants me to take "magic" home with me at the end of the day and though I do not want to admit it, I really do want to take it home with me. I crave it. What does this mean? Does it mean that I am the epitome of triteness?

At this point, I feel like these books want me to ask these very questions and maybe nothing more. They want me, the overly-anylitical and rational reader, to wonder if the unreal is perhaps real. Maybe it is a version of escapism (it appears that the human race is fucked), or maybe it is literary evolution. I hope it is the latter.

Regardless, I am glad that it is asking me. I'm glad that it feels like something is moving somewhere. Forward, backward, sideways, who cares? At least it's moving.

Dear Diary,

I'm currently reading "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," and "Lady Chatterly's Lover." I'm holding off with all the restraint I am able to muster and waiting to read "The Year of Magical Thinking." It's teasing me though, so we shall see if I can resist.

I read an interesting article in the NY Times about Carl Jung's "Red Book" which is being somewhat controversially published next month. Considering the facts that my therapist is a Jungian and that Jung's ideas (at least the ones I have a vague understanding about) intrigue me, the "Red Book" is also on my reading to-do list. And I'll admit, the fact that this book has caused a ruckus makes it all-the-more appealing.

I wish I were in a book club or class where I could discuss these books, but I guess that's what on-line forums are for.

Maybe this means that it is about time for me to start thinking more seriously about going back to school.

My current musical interests include: The Generationals, Starfucker, The Flaming Lips, Crystal Castles, Bibio, Ratatat, Frederic Chopin (thanks to Dexter), Neko Case (still), Jr. Boys, perhaps Wild Beasts, and the love of my life, Dylan.

I think I'll go ride my bike in the dark now.

P.S. I'm in love.

Candid Youth

Every time I babysit new children, I am reminded how G- and N- are scary-close to perfect. Other young children are the typical nonsensical, fickle, naturally caffeinated teeny-tiny monsters/angels-- simply put, they're "normal." I guess I've never been attracted to normal though.

What I am about to type is trite. I just wanted to warn you.

One thing I appreciate (and occasionally despise) about all children is their frankness. Many do not have a concept of appropriateness.

"Why are you so fancy?" -F (boy)

"What's fancy about me?" -Me

"Your shoes are shiiiiiiny, and your necklace is like fancy...and you're wearing all black," -F

"Hmm, my shoes are red though, and my necklace is not black," -Me

"Yeah...but why are you wearing all black?" -F

"I just like this outfit. It's comfortable." -Me

F- looks me up and down.

"Well, I think you look cool. The black is cool." -F

Phew!

At around 10:30 P.M., right before the front desk called the room and asked us to be quiet, F- had another moment of pure honesty.

"Hey, F-, A-, you guys need to stop jumping on the bed, otherwise we're going to get in trouble for being loud." -Me

"Why are you here?" -F

"Because your Mamas and Papas wanted me to watch you." -Me

"Well, we don't like you watching us. You can go home." -F

He was only four, but it kind of hurt. Silly, I know.

If I have children, I beg you Universe, please send me ones like G- and N-!!!

P.S. Universe, will you bring Autumn sooner rather than later?

P.S.

Last night, I had a dream that a dog was trying to convince me to have sex with him. I resisted and then it turned into a man. I was too clever and continued to resist despite the convincing metamorphosis. 

I ran away and got stoned in a park while waiting to go to class. Then, a Japanese girl came over to me and began talking about how adorable I was. She took my head in her lap and brushed my hair until I realized that the situation was bizarre and inappropriate. At this point I flipped out and began yelling obscenities at her. She ran away and I went to play on some slides, which is where the dog caught up to me.       

Interpretations?

It's time that we grow old and do some shit.

At this time last year I was a full-fledged man-hater. Whenever a couple walked past, I whispered, "fuck off," under my breath. All men seemed to be either entirely boring or entirely idiotic. I wished Cupid would shoot his arrow through his own eye. 

This year, I'm buying furniture with a man, and we're talking about flying across the country for the holidays. 

I never really cared for men-haters anyway.

It's different, obviously. It's better.

Stockpile

Yesterday, goods were purchased and I drooled.

Today, I still have all the stuff and I am tired.

Love

I woke up earlier than I would have liked in order to pay the goddamn meter. It was a cloudy day, a gloomy way to begin a birthday and I wondered if I should take it as a sign. I crawled back into bed after satisfying Maya's hunger and re-awoke beneath sheer sheets, love, faux-wind, and thoughtful gifts. Vinyl Dylan, yoga, sage, a candle, a feather mask, and a ticket to the block party...he knows me...

K- treated me to a guilty, greasy, Americana vegan lunch. I can't remember the last time I had such delicious Macaroni and "cheese"...it's been so long and maybe if I were to have the real thing, the "Mac and Yease" would not measure up, but who the hell cares? It was gooey, baked, creamy, spicy, and I could have eaten it until my stomach exploded. However, I reminded myself that it was after all my birthday and therefore thought better of suicide-by-gorging. At the same time, wouldn't it be poetic if my birthday and deathday shared a date? Romantic even?

The day proceeded into one of even greater guilty pleasures as I walked to the theater, cancer between my fingers, bottled poison stuffed into my compact satchel. (2012 is approaching anyway, right?) And so, I used a free movie ticket, spent way too much on a "small" fountain drink (which is in truth large enough to hold the Euphrates) and basked in a cinematic soup of raunchy, inappropriate, sacrilegious content. It was a shitty movie, more or less, but it was a day for junk food of all sorts. I loved it and plan on watching it again. It will sit on my shelf right next to Superbad.

I came home to an empty apartment in which I reveled for several hours. My spree of indulgence continued and I spoiled myself... something I used to do fairly often in high-school, but less and less as I grow older. I'll spare you the details and have you know that all that matters is that I was alone (ALONE) and...it...was...divine...

...for a time...

The pleasure of solitude only lasts so long.

I love when he walks through the door.

He made me dinner and mixed me drinks, gave me kisses and hugs and adoration, but still, my favorite part of the day was when he came home. That moment, today and every day, was and is my favorite.