10:18 a.m.||||2001-12-16
I came to do something sneaky with tables and it didn't work and so I now will settle for another topic. You will certainly get sick of my obssessing over code but at least you have insight into my character. I am a lazy, lazy person until I catch on fire about something.
You know what? That's not true. I am NOT lazy, I am just stuck in a tiny apartmnet much of the time and if I don't give a shit about fixing up the irredeemable, then fuck it, right? I mean, I toss a frisbee with the best of 'em, I've been known to shake my booty. I am an excellent camper (check out my stoopid gift list.) I am THE person to ask if you are going on a road trip and you want a companion who's unflaggeable. (Is that a word?) I drove through some backwoods by Charlotte, NC, in the dead of night with five dead-drunk people and found our tiny outpost with NO help from either the drunk people or prior knowledge, because I had none. I drove there by instinct. I'm sometimes full of anxiety unless people are depending on me, and then, well. I just act, driven by necessity and love. Awww. That's real for me.
Now, I have been remembering some things I wanted to talk about.
One is this. My first boyfriend, even then a budding socialist/political analyst, once told me that in his world view there were two kinds of people: consumers and producers. (Ah, the polarics of being 18). Which type did I feel myself to be? He was criticizing me and so I think he must have been down on my consuming. Yet, that conversation, as did so many conversations we had that shaped my intellectual profile, stuck in my craw. When I was in college I'd ask myself - Teach? Or Write? Sing in a rock act? Become a rock critic? I've always erred on the side of making something. Anyway, we broke up because he essentially hates people and I essentially do not.
(By the way, later we went on to be in a fabulous band together called Autopilot; he played guitar. Really, really well.)
I wouldn't mind living in a hut, tending my garden, washing my clothes in a river. I wouldn't mind living in a city with enormous used-book stores. I think about this girl I know who used to drink too much and date the wrong men who now bicycles across country, and who hopped trains for a time, and now has a kind of farm for wayward peaceniks somewhere I have misplaced the name of. I think I could do that. I could have done that.
My point is that enough with the blanket statements about being lazy, "already, will ya." (Those are phrases that that boyfriend made popular, here in ol T-town)
Until I have my farm, and my sheep and my lahma(sp?-is there not an "h"?), and my El Paca's(sp?), and my knitting cottage industry, all afloat (or afield, as the case would be) some where in greener meadows than these, I shall be happy with code.
Go code!
I woke up early because I heard J making cooing/whining noises as if he were waiting to be retrieved. (From his swing, nonetheless - I know it sucks but he is back to hating the crib and can't stay asleep there). When I came out to investigate he was still fully asleep, making little distress noises. Having a dream! Awww. He has my cold, and that little dimple between his nose and lip is chapped and sore looking.
He is seconds away from crawling. He is hesitant and cautious like his mother, concerning the physical world. So far, at least. Dave is a freaking dare-devil.
Anyway. The other thing was this. When I was little, maybe in the second grade, my parents and I were visiting my grandparents in Chicago. My father was outside working on his motorcycle, and the others were hanging out. Inside, in the kitchen, I noticed an unlabelled jar with what appeared to be chocolate syrup sitting on the counter. I took a peek to see if everyone was outside - they were. I took another look just to make sure. They were. Quickly I grabbed the jar and tossed back a mouthful.
Of used motor oil!
Imagine my dismay.
I ran to the bathroom and spat it into the sink. A strange gritty grease coated the roof of my mouth. I thought I would die as I grabbed a toothbrush and began scrubbing the roof of my mouth. My mom came in. I told her what happened, because I thought I was dying and I wanted her to know. Then...I lived.