Scribbler's Cafe

Scans, Scandal and (de)Spite

Yesterday I "walked in on" in the most horrible way possible. One night after that particular shaky trauma, the boy who told me to believe in fate decided, rightly so, that my life is too complicated for him to be a part of. So today I play uplifting songs on my ipod, wander alone down winding city rivers and start a healing journal labeled "O" for ornery.


Her friend said to her, "Be your own white knight. Didn't you always have fantasies of being the hero?"
Yes, but...


Thank God for Jenny. She provides the through line of love and strength in my "complicated" life. She tells me that if they tell say "I love you" and then also want to sleep with me, I should worry and run run run

I laugh outloud. Laughter of absurdity. OK, I'll try it. Say you love me - and it means you don't. Take off you pants and watch how fast I can run.

Down with love.
Up with me.




I think of my life in design terms and suddenly it makes sense. White space. Don't forget to leave white space. Too many focal points, no matter how strong, gorgeous or dynamic, crowd and confuse the scene. Beauty and overall strength is muddled and lost. My life is crammed full of dynamic focals. I forgot to leave white space. I'm long overdue. Now is the time to drench myself in white space, drown in the expanse, compound the crucial nothing to counteract the voluminous density of love and men and lusty exaltation.

TANGENTS:
Last night, in order to not think about anything, I watched Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, molded to my daughter's drowsy body on the couch and drinking too much akka wine. I thought of the term step-parent, and realized that it will apply to the man I finally choose. I watched Dick van Dyke on the screen, how he faces failures and creative set-backs, yet still finds joy in his gorgeous children and time to tell a fantastic story about pirates. I want to be a parent like that. I want all of life to be a beautiful game. I think of laying with my daughter in her bed and telling her about the novelist Kundera's laughing game. This is what we do: first we fake laugh - as loud as we can. Snorting is encouraged. It's important that we look at each other as we do this, so as to realize the absurdity and fulfill the complete comic effect. Then true laughter will follow, building and building until we are crying and exhausted. Of course, all I will say to her is "Laugh with mommy."

Laugh with mommy.

The night before all this (new) drama, I laid on the balcony in my hammock with a glass of iced tea, a book of laughter and forgetting, and all the twinkling lights of Osaka. The late hour and resumed life in this forgien land weighted my eyelids and soon I abandoned my literary pursuits to a drowsy sway. I actually thought of this blog. I thought about how I wanted to write of parked cars and secrets, fate proclimations drenched in absinthe, Iron Chef French restuarants, and old loves that fall to the ranks of the shallow legions. Yet the audiences for those stories are separate and jealous. I imagined that my little experiment public self-obsession was finally over. There is no story I can safely tell.

Yet still I find myself writing despite. Despite.

posted by Scribbler @ Friday, September 02, 2005