Pink Lady Grey Lady

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Could be bladder; could be love

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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.

September 3, 2014 at 2:10am
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When I read that Felice Bauer danced the tango, everything changed.

Nervous! Fearful! Thrilled! Goinggettinggone in two days! Opting out of anxiety! Anti-Kafka! 

Drove to the Farmer’s Market to meet M for lunch. We started to really rip into it right, that knock-down-drag-out re-la-ting I love so much, and then, just as I was feeling all good and sorry for myself, talking turned absurd. 

We danced.

Features fail with A and sister. The heavens opened up and Goethe’d all over the place. We drank rosé and ate donut holes instead.

Drove to the east side to see R. Didn’t feel la double felt fine. 

Driving is not what it once was. Time feels frozen. References growing cold. And my new reference points (the newspaper in The Judgment, White Street, Uncle Charlie’s, Karl), incomprehensible. My speech is less clear, I slur and snort and pick at scabs.

Proximity to family detrimental to any attempt at detachment.

Cup size has increased. Want none of it. 

Swollen by sentimentality.

Body/bodies/women’s bodies/uncontrollable bodies/pear shaped bodies/ripe bodies/bitter bodies/almond-infused bodies (Nadezhda Fyodorovna!)…././././//// 

September 1, 2014 at 9:40pm
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8:54pm
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8:52pm
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My grandfather’s stamps. 

My grandfather’s stamps.