Sunday Funday
I just made meat muffins instead of meat loaf.
Meat muffins, roasted & stuffed delicata squash, and a roasted squash & mushroom pasta swimming all up in my kitchen.
Enough to feed myself and loved ones for a week!
Meat MUFFINS.
D and I are having an easier time finding a place to live. Montrosians, the gentrification is more active now than ever. Do not move! Stand your ground! Else, all you can look forward to is paying $800/mo for a murky, musty apartment whose last tenant wrote with black crayon on the wall, “LISTEN TO ME.”
Hannah Blevens, Birch, silk painting, 27” x 33”, 2010
Sometimes, when I am sad & bored,
I raise an arm and press my nose to the hairs I let grow since last year and then I inhale the musk that lies between the long and coarse wires, jutting from the hollows of my pits and then I remember that I love a man who kind of smells like me and that if I can love him I should surely love the hairs in the cave of my underarms, the spongey bumps that make their bed.
And when I think of sponges, I think about the two thick ones inside my chest, the lungs that are subject to my pits and his pits and I think about how I am trying to quit smoking but I love the smell of cigarette smoke and tar across the first knuckle of my fingers and I think it may be worth it so that I could smell like that but then I remember what “it” is and “it” is cancer or, the worse of it, disease. I remember that “it” is death or, the worse of it, not breathing the way I can breathe right now and what if there is one day when I am sad & bored but not alone what if there is one day when I am sad & bored & sitting next to the man that I love and I lift his arms and my arms and I press my nose to his and my hair and I can’t smell a goddamn thing because once, a long time ago, I decided that the stink on my fingers from cigarettes could sustain me more than old armpits, the musty statement of, “Here, we made this for you and this is what you smell and like and you two smell like each other and god damn isn’t it fucking beautiful?”
“Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was—
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.”
— Louise Gluck from Meadowlands (via corrodedvessel)
Annual Report
It really doesn’t matter that I feel like the peg with all of these awkward angles and dents that used to fit into the hole but let itself sit in the water and now is weird and now is warped and now is a little bit rotten on some spots.
It doesn’t matter because the only thing anyone has ever said afterward is that you just don’t understand until you lose someone the way that I did.
So, I’ve been really into tapings of live Broadway performances and “rockumentaries” on Netflix Instant lately.
Maybe this is research for the band.
Who am I kidding? It’s research for my birthday-karaoke-singtilyoupukeandthensingsomemore-vaganza!
Excuse me while I continue studying and eating the food my boyfriend left in my refrigerateur.
Above: Company, Sondheim. Then, Queen.
~ The Pleasures of Ignorance, by Robert Lynd, 1921
