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Friday, Nov. 19, 2004 / 8:51 p.m. ~Still~ Well, thank you for signing the guestbook, the few who took the time (though it's never too late, those of you who choose to remain anonymous, come out and say hello), and thank you, Whatawoman for the most astute, and quite complimentary observation. I'd like to think my 'righting mechanism' (my own terminology) is still in high gear, but I woke up wrong today. It wasn't the wrong side of the bed, I always sleep on the same side, the cats on the other, but it was wrong, something was off. I woke up in a sweat, I felt exhausted, my eyes had been shut so tightly they were puffy all around, I had trouble with them all day, spasms below the one. I must have squinched them shut and kept them that way, must have been shutting out the world, heavily into sleeping and dreams I have no hope of remembering. The sleep was intense then, and the waking such an intrusion, such a betrayal, that I never recovered, not the entire day. I sat and 'keyed', and listened to music, Chopin, Aretha Franklin, Led Zeppelin, Beastie Boys, yes, it was an eclectic mix, but I never really spoke to anyone. I hear them around me, each day, laughing, talking, gossiping, I hear bits and pieces and tune the rest out, but I was immersed in my own weary mind. Last night was Tony Bourdain and lusting for him, crushing upon him, thinking him the ideal man, and his unattainability only adding to the myth. I loved his articulate speech, the way he found all the right words, and like a writer talking, as he is a writer who talks in his books, and when he talks sounds like he's writing, he would edit himself halfway through sentences. He'd pick a word, decide it wasn't right, and strike through it right there in front of us, few noticing, no doubt. I loved his brash nature, but it was obvious he cares, about food, about travel, about cooking, about feeding people, and eating, and writing. I also found him incredibly good looking, lean and tall, dressed in black, beautiful hands that move when he talks, and his New York attitude present every moment, accent included. I bought the new book, and it was very expensive, produced by a publisher I'd never heard of, and in the publisher notes it is mentioned the paper is from non-endangered trees, and it's recycled too, I think. I used my cell phone, in my parked car, to order Thai takeout, and in that moment thought this is what it's all about, no more trying to find pay phones, trying to find the right exorbitant amount of pocket change to place said call to order takeout, I have my own phone now, I carry it with me, and lately I leave it on, 24 hours a day, hoping, still, that he'll call, or that I'll get a text message, from someone, from anyone, or even a wrong number. The Thai was excellent, all my favorites, my own sense of comfort food, and today I ate even more, leftover (I order a LOT, typically), but the whole event was overshadowed by this post-booksigning/question and answer session 'depression'. Or the waking when it was all wrong indeed. It's hard to close myself off like that, like this, it's not what I want. I want to communicate, mostly with him, and still, still, dammit, still, it kills me I can't. Why should it even? I should be over it, it was too short to be immersed, still. Still. I remember too much, and until enough time passes (it's been close to three weeks, how much longer?), I'll still think of it all, and him, when I'm feeling low. Last night, it was Tony Bourdain, all Tony, only him, and wanting to travel the world with him, and listen to him talk, and watch him eat, and eat with him, anything and everything. But today it was low, low, low. It's getting better. I'm on my time now, until Monday, and I've indulged in a lengthy hot bath, a glass of Merlot (all out now, I need more wine, Shiraz next time), and I'm contemplating food, snacks at least. I am stocked up on cheddar popcorn and lemon iced cookies, and frozen foods to satisfy decadent urges. I need to be decadent and not to care, and to fall into comfort foods, comfort films ("Wizard of Oz" is on too!), to write if I need, but to work on forgetting, to work on healing completely and finding myself completely (I think I'm there, I do, and then a bad day happens), remembering the things I want, and finding ways to achieve them. First? I need to win the lottery. Second? Everything else. Norma is waiting on the sofa for me, I'd best get back. I can hear the Cowardly Lion talking to Dorothy. I like the scenes where you can see the wire that holds his tail, and all the intense colors, and those crazy ruby red slippers. Cost of the War in Iraq
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