There's a Few Things I'd Like to Say

1. This is the 3rd time I've started this post over. Sometimes it's hard to ice a cake. You keep smoothing it over and over again, and it only makes it less smooth. At which point you should just start eating it, and say, "Fuck you, cake."

2. Today, when I was waiting for the very friendly Starbucks employee in Adam's Morgan to retrieve my lostandfound cell phone from the vault, I picked up the Sunday edition of The New York Times. Which costs $6 apparently. And I responded to the news articles with a feeling of dread and horror and the feeling that I will not be able to survive much longer without finding a consistent creative outlet for dealing with the tiny and massive tragedies that announce themselves to me on a daily basis. I actually love the ritual of a daily gratitude journal, but I think it needs a shadowy counterpart where I can store and alchemize the horrors. I'm thinking a scrapbook kind of sketchbook, but it just makes me disappointed I don't have the basic skills of an artist. Then I could sketch the sadness instead of just farting it awkwardly onto the page. Or maybe poetry would be better. Or a combination of both.

3. Sometimes I forget who I am, and today I remembered that I am very little when I am not a creator. Not writing is like forgetting to eat or sleep. I lose my functionality in other realms - like relating and socializing, doing constructive work in the office, having good judgement about food and cleanliness. Writing makes the wheels stop turning too fast, and reminds me that I exist, the world exists, and I can be in it.

Wine.

Sniff. Sip. Swish. Swallow.

The burst of flavor reminds me why I spent fifteen dollars on one beverage. Complexity. Body. The thought of an Italian curating grape juice into the experience that is Barbera D'Asti. The slow, steady relaxation.

Sniff. Sip. Swish. Bite of Drunken Goat on Ritz.

There are 5 bottles next to my recycling can. Five. Yes, I'm bad at remembering to take out the trash, but this means more than that. This means missing Joe in the inconsolable pit of my stomach; this means stressing over that one key source for my thesis documentary; this means school hanging over my head like a boulder; this means worry about the next career move.

"What will you do when you graduate?"

Umm, exactly what I'm doing now. Maybe. If they hire me. But maybe not. What if I don't want to stay? Geez, it's not like it's undergrad where your whole life changes when you graduate and you leave most of your friends behind, and you leave the ease of walking to Common Grounds or sitting at the Fleur Fountain and seeing 16 people you love to chat with while neglecting your homework.

Sniff. Sip. Swish.

Wine is just my hobby. Right? It's not like I get drunk or drink the whole bottle in one day (unless I have Heidi to help me).

I flip on Ruko or Hulu and watch The Office or Family Guy.

Stewie to Brian: "If I choose to make stool in my pants right now, you're the only one here to change me. What do you think of that? Hmm?"

Laugh. Sniff. Sip. Swish.

What was I complaining about again? School is now over; just need to defend my thesis and shake hands with my dean and take that diploma. Joe's traveling work project ends soon; he'll be home to me in June.

Summer is coming. Winter will end.

Sniff. Sip. Swish. Ahhh.

Just an idea

So, as I'm peeking my head up out of the sand I've been buried in the past two years (I graduate in 2 weeks--you may now call me "master"), I'm ready to revisit writing for enjoyment and fulfillment again (i.e. creative writing rather than news). So... I have an idea. I'm not sure anyone looks at this anymore; I believe Tasha must every now and again. But: We should do writing prompts to get this blog heated back up. Yea? Nay?

I'm going to write about wine because I see a wine glass on my coffee table (no--not from this morning, silly! From like 2 days ago!). But I will start a new post.