The French Press Squeeze

Finally, finally, the second book is done enough for me to justify blogging again.

The book is an ego fuck. The book had to be written, or I was worried I would explode.

The book ruined my life for awhile. I would wake up with laptop on my knees, salty cheeks, empty. Just all spent out. You wonder why so many of us writers are heartless bastards? Our soul is in pages. I started the book when my heart was in little pulverized pieces, figuring that writing as a little shell would make it easier to write about death, torture, injustice and violence. And pancakes at Nana's. It was.

Now my heart is all whole again and I'm so fucking restless. I want some goddamn VERBS. Jump, hopscotch, run, paint, whirl, fuck, tango. Even cooking feels a little like drowning right now. My hands are raw and at the same time, cauterized by flame. My tastebuds are dead with the cigarettes I want to but haven't smoked and the meals I make for other people but have no interest in eating. At the same time, I'm happier now that I've ever been. I just feel trapped in my happiness, like I would imagine dogs do. I'm fed and watered, but I want to chase cars and get into trouble. I want to play the accordion and howl at the moon (this is easier for humans than dogs).

I'm one who takes deep and almost carnal joy in really simple, small things. Watering my plants. Eating breakfast. Listening to the Beach Boys "Endless Summer" while playing Scrabble against myself. Knowing the librarians at the Walker library. Making grocery lists. Having an actual conversation with someone other than my (much loved) roommate or my team members.

I want to be a gypsy. A rice paper lamp. An unpredictable souffle. A tea cake. A paperback pocket sized travel guide.

I am chef clogs. I am heavy sighs. I am a half dried up black marker. I am the syrupy coffee dregs in the bottom of a big, big mug.

I'm not morose and I'm not whining. It's just a reminder to reassess and slow down. Do I still love my job(s)? Do I still want to be a cook? Do I still want to be a business lady? Maybe I should move. Maybe I should stay (ie buy a house).

The problem with this age is I don't know what I want, but I want everything that I think I want (stability, uncertainty, in turns, love, sex but not love, to learn to play the accordion, to make my own marmalade and butter, to visit my parents all the time, to accept that I can't, to build tree houses and blanket forts, to double our sales at work, to be a line worker, to be a rising star, to travel and to sit still, to read books and take naps, to knit, to fight, to drink large quantities of bourbon after remembering to eat something so I can drink large quantities of bourbon, to build furniture again, to paint again, to be a ballerina again, to learn Spanish. To take salsa lessons with Nate. To cook every week with Rose. To go see everyone's band. To visit everyone that has flown the nest of the Midwest. To see my sister grow up. To get more than three hours of sleep a night. To throw spontaneous dinner parties without falling asleep on the couch during the coffee portion and having to be carried to bed. Pho. Mostly I want pho.)

I can feel lusty summer air blowing in through my window. It overheats me, which makes me nauseous and fraught with insomnia. The pressure builds. I get up. I turn on the fan. I put ice from the freezer on my chest and arms and neck. I drink cold water. At the same time, the blast of heat makes me want to be out in it. Its just a matter of fighting the glaze of humidity to get to the lovely parts. That's the answer, I suppose.

It's midnight. I have to work at five. I'm wide awake, drinking coffee like an idiot, tapping both feet, knowing that I'll either fall asleep hard or spend an hour curling and uncurling, hugging the extra pillow, putting my feet against the wall, eventually doing some yoga, cursing the clock. Whenever I get pensive, that tricky mistress of slumber goes to someone else's house and sleeps around. The dirty tramp.

It has also been demanded by certain currently abroad ex bed sharers that I start Twittering. I understand, my darling, but its just little bit degrading to acquiesce to something called "tweeting". As always, I am the Caddie Woodlawn of this modern wired world. The canning kettle in the coding room.

Speaking of which, has anyone seen my fucking canning kettle?

Love,

AEL