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music: caddalica
Nov. 5th, 2001 10:51 amtime gets better and better. soon it will be a supernova; i won't be able to contain the good things that keep exploding under me out & out towards the edges of the tabletop.
so, friday. although i explode on the telephone when b does his jerk impression, i manage not to cry. j drags me to arlington where we see a cheapo screening of sous le sable which is beautiful, like a succession of paintings. about a woman and longing, mostly. i like my grasp of screenfrench: it flows light and easy like a dream. i don't have to promise anything.
we return home and i sleep early, a boiling welter of dreams again, interrupted by late night phone calls and brief insomnias.
saturday is when r arrives, and we go grocery shopping for the party for, like, five hours, rambling all over in the cold white car (the coffin?) and then return home for naps and kitchen cleaning. i grate a pound of gruyere and emmenthal for the fondue. then i make miso soup for dinner. j's crazy friend corey arrives, who we all like instantly. she is a storyteller. she is hip with her episcopal self. she interns with the cathedral on the commons, here in boston. she has corkscrewy hair and dark circles under her eyes. a silk scarf. a method of moving her hands that intrigues me.
so two hours later the house is sparkling with candles and people begin arriving and consuming our alcohol and snacks. i make crostini with brie, artichoke tapenade, roasted red pepper knots. the fondue finally makes it to the table (the wine takes ages to boil) and is consumed in a frenzy. there are many people in our house. aaron phil danielle&claire bibiana&erin dave dave dave (yes, three of them) michael geordie mike tara christie sharon&jacqui corey j c r & myself. others i'm certain i'm forgetting. but these are the important ones anyway. some taboos break out, nothing serious. crazy dave with the blue spike hair does his eurostile mooves (cause it rhymes w/ grooves). eurostile dave is in stark contrast to bedfordmayor's-son dave, who is a chunk of blond flesh sort of, also in stark contrast to tall redhead dave, who is my favorite. he does not mention a girlfriend. all the daves plus mike and geordie fawn over the bose, and insist on radiohead at loud volumes. i smile at them. we discuss small spaces, cramped quarters.
also that morning c had cut my hair. up to my ears. wee shorn hair at the nape of my neck. it swings behind my ears now, little curled locks. i wore red to the party.
some time after midnight phil is sleeping in an adorable heap on the sofa, someone is leaving for another party elsewhere, we are dead tired. eventually the crowds shuffle off with their coats. we make everyone promise to return again. we glow with our fabulous hostessness and shake many hands, embrace many shoulders. we collapse into bed. r and i sleep like a house afire.
sunday is making omelettes with the leftover tapenade and goat cheese and scallions and peppers and mushrooms &etc. we read the nytimes; i get all fired up and yell about things while rattling newsprint, smudging it on my fingers. we all mumble and clear our throats. c watches football and makes small noises from the couch. occasionally she yelps and thrashes. i reassure myself that she is "into it".
i run for 45 minutes and return home; c & r go for a walk on memorial; j is out doing photos and gathering apples for pie; i make the pie crust. soon r and i gather up scarves and troop down to church street to see waking life with heather&althea and co. it is mind-blowing. we laugh and leave. we sober up and stare distractedly out the bus window. a blind man hollers at us from across the aisle. we check all the lightswitches in the house to make sure we're not dreaming. using the fridge letters i write up super perfundo in the early eve of your day to c and j's confusion.
but: they exclaim: try the pie! we do. it is heavenly. i have managed to make the most perfect & savory piecrust ever to have touched down to earth from heaven. we melt into apple pie and watch some television unfold.
when we sleep, r and i keep knocking knees. when she wakes from a dream she kicks me. this morning we wake and i have had a most curious dream:
r and i are in venice. in a church. x and his sister are there. and devin from hs. and nina. we sit at an elongated rustic table. we crumble up a blue resin. we sniff it. this is after i demure saying no, let's not inject. we use miniature blue siphons and funnels to snort the blue dust. it hits the bloodstream and we float outwards. all around us there are deep pools of water and religious men are having religious experiences. the stained glass glows. god reaches down and i avoid his hand. x takes money from a machine and tries to give it to me but i refuse it. but i peek over his shoulder to look at the foreign currency. all around us, tall buildings in ruins; i can see the sky through them. in a restaurant we wait for service and i speak in firm italian. we will not be strongarmed by these waiters, no sir. the blue drug makes the red walls here look in motion, like the walls of a heart. the dark innards of an organ. x is faceless in this dream, and quiet. i try not to think about it.
today is garment district, and dollar-a-pound, and later a run, and references to send to dfci. jasmine tea and apple pie for breakfast! heather and althea mentioned a quilting club they are starting. this is what the garment district is for: gathering shards of fabric that are soft and soon to be quilted. i want that warmth. oh yes.
so, friday. although i explode on the telephone when b does his jerk impression, i manage not to cry. j drags me to arlington where we see a cheapo screening of sous le sable which is beautiful, like a succession of paintings. about a woman and longing, mostly. i like my grasp of screenfrench: it flows light and easy like a dream. i don't have to promise anything.
we return home and i sleep early, a boiling welter of dreams again, interrupted by late night phone calls and brief insomnias.
saturday is when r arrives, and we go grocery shopping for the party for, like, five hours, rambling all over in the cold white car (the coffin?) and then return home for naps and kitchen cleaning. i grate a pound of gruyere and emmenthal for the fondue. then i make miso soup for dinner. j's crazy friend corey arrives, who we all like instantly. she is a storyteller. she is hip with her episcopal self. she interns with the cathedral on the commons, here in boston. she has corkscrewy hair and dark circles under her eyes. a silk scarf. a method of moving her hands that intrigues me.
so two hours later the house is sparkling with candles and people begin arriving and consuming our alcohol and snacks. i make crostini with brie, artichoke tapenade, roasted red pepper knots. the fondue finally makes it to the table (the wine takes ages to boil) and is consumed in a frenzy. there are many people in our house. aaron phil danielle&claire bibiana&erin dave dave dave (yes, three of them) michael geordie mike tara christie sharon&jacqui corey j c r & myself. others i'm certain i'm forgetting. but these are the important ones anyway. some taboos break out, nothing serious. crazy dave with the blue spike hair does his eurostile mooves (cause it rhymes w/ grooves). eurostile dave is in stark contrast to bedfordmayor's-son dave, who is a chunk of blond flesh sort of, also in stark contrast to tall redhead dave, who is my favorite. he does not mention a girlfriend. all the daves plus mike and geordie fawn over the bose, and insist on radiohead at loud volumes. i smile at them. we discuss small spaces, cramped quarters.
also that morning c had cut my hair. up to my ears. wee shorn hair at the nape of my neck. it swings behind my ears now, little curled locks. i wore red to the party.
some time after midnight phil is sleeping in an adorable heap on the sofa, someone is leaving for another party elsewhere, we are dead tired. eventually the crowds shuffle off with their coats. we make everyone promise to return again. we glow with our fabulous hostessness and shake many hands, embrace many shoulders. we collapse into bed. r and i sleep like a house afire.
sunday is making omelettes with the leftover tapenade and goat cheese and scallions and peppers and mushrooms &etc. we read the nytimes; i get all fired up and yell about things while rattling newsprint, smudging it on my fingers. we all mumble and clear our throats. c watches football and makes small noises from the couch. occasionally she yelps and thrashes. i reassure myself that she is "into it".
i run for 45 minutes and return home; c & r go for a walk on memorial; j is out doing photos and gathering apples for pie; i make the pie crust. soon r and i gather up scarves and troop down to church street to see waking life with heather&althea and co. it is mind-blowing. we laugh and leave. we sober up and stare distractedly out the bus window. a blind man hollers at us from across the aisle. we check all the lightswitches in the house to make sure we're not dreaming. using the fridge letters i write up super perfundo in the early eve of your day to c and j's confusion.
but: they exclaim: try the pie! we do. it is heavenly. i have managed to make the most perfect & savory piecrust ever to have touched down to earth from heaven. we melt into apple pie and watch some television unfold.
when we sleep, r and i keep knocking knees. when she wakes from a dream she kicks me. this morning we wake and i have had a most curious dream:
r and i are in venice. in a church. x and his sister are there. and devin from hs. and nina. we sit at an elongated rustic table. we crumble up a blue resin. we sniff it. this is after i demure saying no, let's not inject. we use miniature blue siphons and funnels to snort the blue dust. it hits the bloodstream and we float outwards. all around us there are deep pools of water and religious men are having religious experiences. the stained glass glows. god reaches down and i avoid his hand. x takes money from a machine and tries to give it to me but i refuse it. but i peek over his shoulder to look at the foreign currency. all around us, tall buildings in ruins; i can see the sky through them. in a restaurant we wait for service and i speak in firm italian. we will not be strongarmed by these waiters, no sir. the blue drug makes the red walls here look in motion, like the walls of a heart. the dark innards of an organ. x is faceless in this dream, and quiet. i try not to think about it.
today is garment district, and dollar-a-pound, and later a run, and references to send to dfci. jasmine tea and apple pie for breakfast! heather and althea mentioned a quilting club they are starting. this is what the garment district is for: gathering shards of fabric that are soft and soon to be quilted. i want that warmth. oh yes.
