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Tuesday, Feb. 17, 2004 / 11:02 a.m. ~Listening~ There�s a man with a white mustache, big glasses, who steps outside to smoke cigarettes, all day. He coughs, he smokes, he drinks coffee. He�s tall and he smiles at me. I heard him talking on the phone one day, to his child, telling him or her to keep it up, he or she can write cursive effectively one day soon. He was so supportive, encouraging, it was endearing. His office is mere feet from my cubicle. He talks on his speaker phone a lot. I find myself saying, aloud, �Just pick up the fucking phone!� He is an accountant. Accountants use speaker phones. Veronica sits closer to me now than she did in our other department. Universal Karma, the great cosmic force, has it that she will never be too far removed from me. Some days she comes in and her mouth never stops moving. When she�s not talking she�s eating, chewing. She�s loud. I�m listening to Fatboy Slim, �You�ve Come a Long Way, Baby�, and I don�t like it as much as I once did. My fingers are perpetually cold. Or too hot. Cold, clammy. I hear her, Veronica, over my music. She�s like a big gnat flying around my head on a hot Summer day. Or some loud bass booming from a car outside. I want to turn her off, swat her away. Yesterday�s sexuality has an obvious explanation. Ovulation. It�s all biology, we�re animals, our sex drives correspond to our breeding cycles. I�m fertile, still, I have eggs, old, granted, they�re nearly expired, but I still release one monthly, and I am appropriately �randy� at that time. It�s a biological drive to procreate, in spite of me. I succumb to body over mind. I fell asleep on the sofa last night, just before 10:00. It was accidental, then I succumbed again, to body over mind, gave in to the desire, turned off the VCR, gave up on the soap opera, slept for about four hours, with cats, two cats curled up against me, barely room for me, also curled, in a fetal position. �If this don�t make your booty move, your booty must be dead�. I used to listen to this in my car, and I�d want to dance, I�d feel dangerous, I�d want to go to clubs and have anonymous upright sex out back. I am disconnecting, I feel it. I can only do so much reaching out, so much trying to connect, before I back up and retreat. And I�ve mentioned it a lot lately, but it feels necessary to remind myself. I�m so tired. Dennis Kucinich is not �soft� on terrorism, he is a pacifist. He does not believe in war. America is not ready for him, for his vision. Americans want to fight, they want to have a politician in the White House, not a man with ideals. They want wars, violence, might, white right, fuck the truth, fuck making things better. We are doomed. I long to be an ex-pat. Long. Lust to live in the Italian or French countryside. I�m tired of LiveJournal. I�m just tired, all the way around. And upside down too. I haven�t been able to write, to really write, in days. I feel the opposite of creative, energetic, it feels like I need to take a break, from most things. I really do want to move forward into moving backward. I want desperately to be where I was, I want to go back in time. I�ll concentrate all efforts toward that goal. And now, ladies and germs, for my listening pleasure, another album I heard far too many times, but which now takes me back to a simpler time consequently, Nortec Collective�s �The Tijuana Sessions Vol. 1�, and really, I should look to see if there is a Vol. 2. It�s Mexican Techno music. Fantastic. I used to listen to this on the bus rides to D.C. to protest, usually early in the morning when we were almost there. So, now, sitting here in the cube, listening, I can see out the bus window, I can watch the trees go by, I can look down into the cars next to us, see the laps of so many drivers, see their hands reach for their coffees and cell phones. I can feel the excitement of the unknown, of riding into it. And I can feel lust and hope and possibility and newness. Cost of the War in Iraq
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