It was a really beautiful day today. Snowflake was so sweet and cooperative, I felt like I was tripping on some sugar cubes(this the 180 from a hellion flinging a poop rake at his friend's face yesterday afternoon, somehow stopping short of blinding him). Pure sweetness. I went to the office and got a few things done so I could go missing for a few hours tomorrow morning. We went to the lake and SF and I took a long walk down the winding road, late in the afternoon. The sun was golden and made any shade more intense.
The water and pines were the color of a 1950's post card. We walked around at an abandoned resort and looked in curtainless windows, ringing doorbells no one would answer. Wide white steel siding doesn't fade over time in the sunlght. It looks the same year after year.
I found a petrified rock that reminded me of a skull. I put it in my pocket. I stole it. Who would miss it? Slightly smaller than a softball, it would make a perfect primitive weapon.
I showed him some fungi that was growing high up on a dead birch tree, curly bark peeling away in layers and branchless. We had a good day.He stayed at my parents tonight so I am alone. I was going to watch a movie, but instead found an old folder of my 'writing' from freshman year. I had this amazing teacher named J.D. Whitney. I saw him walking his black lab a few weeks ago and he smiled as I drove by. He wouldn't have known me, he's just one of those nice people who smile when a car drives by in their neighborhood. I'm looking at my stuff and I was so descriptive and so out of my mind. The fantastical stories I wrote were so far out. I liked to write from the male point of view.
My professor read this crap and actually encouraged me in a positive way, even going so far as to give me articles that he thought would inspire me. The poems were awful. Free verse of the worst kind. Prose, oh puh-lease. I wrote about a guy fucking his 320 pound German teacher in a drunken haze(title: From Drunk to Monk). I was the world's first test tube baby. And I interviewed a burned out hippie named "Bonger"(how original is that, yet Whitney liked the 'energy' of the piece) and so many more rediculous stories.I feel fucked up sometimes. Like I've blown it. I'm not a writer although I wanted to be one. I'm a mother though I never expected to be one. I love my boy even though his haircut makes him look like Rush Limbaugh. I don't have any idea of what I'm doing or what I am going to do. I'm terrible with money. I looked at myself and thought about how much I've aged. I wish I was made out of white steel siding. I acknowledge this in me. I had a good day.
