when i feel all
up like this it's hard to hold back from writing
everything down. there's nothing wrong with writing everything down, it just takes a long time & isn't part of my secret, internal mission-statement.
alternatively, i want to buy some coca-cola, make dinner, & sit down with whichever novel it is i'm reading next.
(just now i've finished with the dive from clausen's pier, which i swallowed up although i didn't like it much. she � ann packer � has this great sense of character though & i kept waiting for there to be the thing, the reason the book was written, the one good thing i could take away from it. it turned out to be this, about fifty pages from the end:
I felt dizzy. I thought of his hands on my arms, how they were just the right size for my arms, to smooth my arms. How they felt on my stomach, especially when they were cold, that exquisite chill. His hands on my legs. His hands on my breasts. I put my own hands on my breasts and they felt soft and flabby, they felt like nothing. Like pockets of flesh. How extraordinary, I thought, that someone could touch you and make you into something.
now you don't need to read it if you don't want to, that's all you need.)
anyway this afternoon i was reading on the bed, the cats keeping me company very quietly. when mischka knocked at the door i turned in time to see murmur slink down off the bed, so quietly & smoothly that she looked like a piece of fabric falling as the bed is jostled.
