Pink Lady Grey Lady

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Could be bladder; could be love

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October 19, 2014 at 1:23pm
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Stuck on a stone at the beach in Nice. I’m making meaning and calling it une signe!

Stuck on a stone at the beach in Nice. I’m making meaning and calling it une signe!

October 15, 2014 at 9:37am
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Reading, lately:

The Swimming Pool Library, A. Hollinghurst (terrible terrible terrible; “literary” vomit; well-formed sentences but no soul)
Minor Characters by Joyce Johnson (excellent)

“If it had been possible to remain in motion forever, never tiring, speeding away from each new encounter while it was still unsullied by the flagging of the first excitement, he might have been happy.”


Love Me Back by Merritt Tierce (excellent!)

“Cal’s taste would become two or three tastes and then he would get so frisky, he would start touching all the women— servers, guests, the pastry chef— like you trail your hand through cattails out on a skiff. Pleased, enjoying the weather, nature.” (Recognize a certain kind of writing, here)

“I didn’t take personally anything The Restaurant ever had in store for me. I just did the next thing as well as I could and then the next. The fifth or sixth sous- chef I worked with was griping at Florida John one night over some mess that had gone down earlier in the evening, when I walked up to restock some plates. Why can’t you be like this one? said the sous- chef, putting his hand on my shoulder. Don’t matter what happens out there, she’s ice. What’s your secret? he asked. Enlighten this motherfucker. Accept that shit is all fucked up and roll with it, I said. Don’t bitch. Just adapt. Nothing is going to go right and everything is going to be hard. Jesus, Confucius, said the sous-chef.”

Come and Join the Dance, Joyce Johnson (not good but perhaps intentional…; echoes of Kafka in two places! Interesting to read a first novel)

“Her father was signaling to the waiter now. “Gar- song! Gar- song!” he called. The waiter glided to their table. “M’sieu?” he said discreetly. “Listen,” her father said, “I think we’ll have a little something to drink before dinner.” “Cocktails, M’sieu?” “Well, I’d like something sort of special. You see,” he said loudly, “it’s a special festive occasion.” He gave Susan and her mother a rather defiant look. “My daughter just graduated from college.” She wanted to run from the table, she wanted to weep. Why was her father doing this to her? Why was he humiliating her now? Was it because he knew he had won? He would make her hate him for winning. He would make her hate him. “Perhaps some champagne?” the waiter suggested. “Champagne— yes, that’s what we’ll have.” For the first time her father sounded a little nervous. The waiter glided away. “A little champagne won’t hurt us.” Her mother’s face had gone blank.They sat in silence until the waiter returned bearing the bottle of champagne wedged into a bucket of ice, the three glasses. Then there was the ritual of pulling the cork— it popped just as if this were a real celebration; the champagne foamed into her glass before she could tell her father she didn’t want it.”

Re-reading All is Forgotten, Nothing is Lost by Samantha Chang (liked it better the first time/stumbled across after finding amazing Eileen Chang’s Love in A Fallen City)
Started Deliverance by James Dickey but couldn’t deal with dudes

'Everything that is not literature bores me' to be replaced by 'I'm tired of reading books written by and about men….'

But will soon read The Four Hour Work Week and Vagabonding for insight into a certain kind of male psyche.

October 14, 2014 at 5:26pm
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Imagine me thusly:

Striding through plowed rows between vines, tossing seed (sowing grain!) into the upturned Earth
Drunk-dancing at discoteca in Firenze
Enjoying male camaraderie; hating male camaraderie (women-judging, but I play that game too…)

Soon I will be speaking French, again!

"Ok. Non, je n’ai pas des allergies alimentaires et je mange presque tout. Ici, il pleut aussi. J’ai des pieds assez grands—taille 42.5 ou 43, mais je peux porter bottes des hommes—je dois faire ça parfois."

;) ;P

September 25, 2014 at 3:23pm
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The best I’ve felt in a long time: Drinking strong coffee and eating cookies after tasting a dessert wine at a full table; fond feelings for full table made stronger by both the wine and the shared labor. Desire thrumming in the background; my body works and does more than I want it to. Then O made a joke about P and everyone laughed. I felt almost perfect.

September 22, 2014 at 3:27pm
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the night of September 22!

Das Urteil! My body knew before my brain; in the fields kept thinking about K. Read aphorisms in the afternoon. Only later did I check the date. 

Unheimlich! And all that. oeoeoeoeoeoeooe

September 21, 2014 at 4:12pm
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Dusk, Watching cars wind along rolling hills, headlights on a ridge, between two towns. The top of the tower in San Miniato oddly mirroring Nashville’s AT&T tower. Batman in Toscana, baby.

The spectacular violet sunset that turns orange in any photograph: lines of pink, the rows of grapes below. It’s raining; F and Y want to cry but I could care less about the harvest, all I want is a view!

Lots of internal cursing, lately: my inability to speak eloquently around strangers, in group settings, Instead, I’m all ‘cool’ and ‘wow’—completely cognizant of how stupid I sound. Want to be witty and charming but the draw bridge goes up and murky moat water burbles out of my mouth. Barf bag. Bobble head. Get suckered in to hanging out with the girls again and again because I know the vocabulary. Innocent gelato outings abound in spectacularly claustrophobic tourist towns. Goofy schoolgirl humor makes me feel better—comfortable— but I want to talk about literature and philosophy and wine—though know nothing would change in that theoretical situation, around people with more similar internal lives. Still would be silent.

My dumb blog=boxed whine.

September 18, 2014 at 4:21pm
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Second leg: daily schedule, no longer flush with family fundage

6:25-wake up
6:30-6:50-dress, slather on sunscreen, eat breakfast
6:50-7:00-travel to fields
7:00-1:15-cut grapes (plot, imagine worst case scenarios related to accidental cutting of fingers, think about past lives, curse self for deciding to cut grapes for multiple weeks, talk with other workers, listen to other workers)
1:15-3:05-prepare and consume lunch, socialize (pasta or rice, salad, cheese toasts, espresso to finish)
3:05-5:05-write (like scraping shit off a brick)
5:05-7:05-walk towards San Miniato, treating body like would treat post-writing brain, flinging feet against ground, sprinting up secluded hills, jumping on tree stumps, tromping and plodding, imagining self as army recruit on solo survival hike
7:05-9:30-prepare and consume dinner, socialize (tonight: frittata, homemade bread, salad, cookies, sip of nail polish wine)
9:30-10:15-read
10:15-to bed

September 15, 2014 at 4:36pm
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Too much living, not enough writing!

When family is good, life is perfect.
When family is bad, life is black.

How incredibly sane my mother and her sisters are. Live in the moment. Can’t remember. See and do. No stewing. Practical. Better than me.

Felice-like, I guess—though find it silly and juvenile that I’m comparing the personalities of relatives to the personality of Kafka’s old girlfriend. God.

But! Learned vocabulary! Shortcuts! Stories! Less neural capacity needed to make my world more comprehensible! Look ma, no hands!

And they are better.

Second leg: tomorrow!

[ps. If honest, read review of Ferrante’s ‘My Brilliant Friend’ and downloaded it but haven’t begun reading because simultaneously attracted and repelled by reference in review to plebs; eg. ‘Man, that’s astute, but I’m having such a good time being a pleb.’]

September 10, 2014 at 4:22pm
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The problem with a less anonymous blog:

Blog would require three versions for every entry.

1) First version: self-motivated, journal-like. Would be moody, melancholic, cynical. Inner life.
2) Friends-oriented, heavy on style, the kind of correspondence I would like to receive. Witty, jocular, observation-based. Details plucked, fruit off the vine, ripening hastened with words!
3) Basic record of places traveled and things seen, wines consumed, dishes eaten. Simple statistics but maybe most necessary for ‘exact’ recollection of unaltered memory.

All equally true.

All equally false.

September 6, 2014 at 5:27pm
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Toscana

First leg: Traveling for two weeks with older family members who have professions and savings. Believe was tacked on as young, able buffer against combative personalities. Traveling is grand. Could whine pre-wine. Would never whine out loud. Wince typing whine. The chokehold of the family, and all that. Cixous Kafka Karten-Spielen and maybe I don’t want to play. But am eating well, drinking well, walking well and succeeding at being genial and Goethe-like, even when want to be alone.