Wednesday, November 17, 2010

eat my free lunch, virginia woolf.

a few days ago i struck up a conversation in the coffee shop w a floppy-haired aspiring actor. if he took the "which animal are you" quiz on facebook, he'd get cocker spaniel. i hadn't been to the shop in a few weeks bc i used up my gift certificate. then i got a new one, so i was back in business. the business of free meals. veggie sausage w tofutti on an everything bagel, that's my usual. lately it's been veggie burgers w hummus and hot sauce. the barista w the auburn-dipped dreadlocks and the most flawless skin i've ever seen suggested it. i can't even tip her, and she still went out of her way for me. i'll slip her a $20 one of these days.

i can't see the trees for the forest. the details of real life often get lost in my imagination. i've been at it big time for the past few months. whoops. yeah, a big whoops. big whoop. life's a bitch, as they say. the fluctuations in awesomeness give me things to write about.

i bet virginia woolf was a real buzzkill. "a room of one's own"...i roll my eyes. a room of one's own is one only money can provide. all writers don't have money. what, then? do we waste time talking about how they should have money? i don't get it. i mean i do, in terms of verbose academic rambling, but not in real life. woolf was a feminist, but i think she was doing women a disservice, victimizing us, as if we can't make our own way in the big, mean patriarchal world. women have had a tough road. we still aren't treated as equals in the workplace, etc. i'm not caught up in it. i'd rather make some magic happen and then say i told you so. success is the best revenge, virginia.

i value education. i loved being in college. i love reading and researching and learning all sorts of things i don't need to know. however, academia as an entity bothers me. it's like wal-mart. eventually, by virtue of its fundamental purpose, what it offers, it creates a monster. learning becomes the snooty learned. discount becomes the sorrowful discounted. life's a bitch, as they say.

i'm an alice walker kind of girl. she was PO'd at virginia woolf for effectively dismissing black women writers — because what black woman in the late 1920s, when woolf was writing, could be privileged enough to have "a room of her own"? none. in woolf's time, black women were still far behind white women in terms of progress. they had the right to vote, though poll taxes kept them disenfranchised. so alice basically gave the finger to virginia woolf. me too.

if a writer has never struggled, financially or emotionally or both, what will she have to say? nothing too interesting, i bet. i'm not justifying my own chaotic existence, either. look up any famous writer. they're all a mess. although i'd like to have more stability, i fear it at the same time. being broke and unsettled and heartbroken and confused are all i know of the past 10 yrs or so of my life. if that ends, what will come of my writing? will i get too comfortable and stop?

my dad talks a lot. he'll tell just about anyone anything about himself, just to make conversation. i can hear my mom right now...guy, do you really have to tell every stranger your business? then she huffs and puffs. then dad laughs and says i don't know, minnie, i was just talking. it's funny to watch. not nearly as funny as when dad tells the waitress he's gonna beat my mom when they get home, but still funny. i'm my father's daughter. i talk a lot. i've a few things to hide, but not much. some people mistake talking for complaining. i'm not a complainer. i'm a describer. it's different. one day all my describing might just pay off. and hopefully, i'll still find a way to create just enough chaos to keep on writing about it.

virginia woolf offed herself by walking into a river. just sayin.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

of men and money.

i need to write today. need it. except my neck and shoulders are so sore that i don't want to sit here long enough to write anything worthwhile. they're sore for the same reasons i need to write: stress. it's been about a week this time. it could last weeks. a few times it has even lasted months. the neck and shoulder pain, i mean. well, and the stress. one is tamed when i write. the other gets worse.

money sucks. lack of it, and excess of it. i only have experience with one. i make roughly the same amount per year now as i did when i was 22. actually, at one point when i was 22 i made more. at that same point i was also kissing male models like they were passing by on a conveyor belt: i'll have that really tall one with the caramely skin. dean. what a dreamy name. he says he was the first drummer for pantera. he would be the first of my men who play drums. i didn't care if the pantera bit was true because he took me out on a real date. we met in the lobby of his hotel, went to a nice dinner, walked on the really, we did. and it's not nearly as lame as it sounds. it was kinda nice. as we sat at a bar later having some sort of fancy drinks, he pointed over my shoulder and said that painting has a really nice composition...and i thought who cares. it was nearly pitch black in there anyway, how could he tell? i think he made it up. but still he was charming and made me feel like a lady. that happens every once in a while...whiles being like 4-leaf clovers and all.

oooh and that tall, lanky one from texas with the skateboard. adam. he was so cool and he didn't even know it. he was cool because he didn't know it. he listened to the black eyed peas in 1999, when they weren't horrible. adam would be the first of my men on skateboards. i wonder if there will be another, or if one day i'll wake up (as in not from slumber but from oblivion) and take up with a safe know, the kind who can't tell a high hat from a top hat and doesn't know that "trucks" are not just the vehicles that other men drive. nice boy will drive an SUV. i hope. i can't give up the thrill of chasing the wrong men for a guy who drives a car. i don't like it.

hey wait, there's another. i'll have that one with the messy outfit and short-short black hair that would definitely be curly if it were long. he doesn't wear deodorant and has a bad attitude? even better. j.d. — every word he said was tired, as if it had to walk a mile from his brain to his mouth. i liked to hear him talk. we shared a cab from the office one evening after work. later that night he snorted coke off the kitchen counter and played video games while making fun of his english girlfriend's attempts to fight with him on the phone. he was not the first of my men who were spoiled by too much attention from women.

by the way, i was celibate at the time. no, really. i wasn't even tempted, to be honest. and i'm not just saying that in case my dad reads this one day. by the time he gets to this post he'll have enough to give him heartburn. dani, why did you write all that stuff? i don't know, dad. that's just what happened. that's how i answer most of his inquiries into my behavior.

i don't know how i got to talking about men when i started with money. both are a necessary evil. i have to have money so i can pay bills and buy soynog at christmas. i have to have man, that is...because this shoulder isn't gonna rub itself.

today kinda sucked. i ate a pumpkin cheesecake brownie and low fat, organic cheesy poofs for lunch. it didn't change the aforementioned, but it tasted delicious.