1. Be resolute.

2. Write resolutions first thing in the morning.
3. Spend the day fixing up my room, sorting out my frame of mind.
4 (see 1). Keep 'em, these promises.

Surefire pick-me-ups

THIS KID

bouncy bouncy

We're supposedly getting a thunderstorm with hail tonight? Insane.

yesterday evening

There's a man I've never seen before on the neighbor's porch. He's drinking a beer, reading long sections of the bible about god's punishment into a cell phone. His voice is preachy but muted, and I can't tell if his heart's in the recitation. I wonder who he's talking to--he pauses every minute or so before going on, human sin, flame and more flame. It's deathly hot outside. I'm trying my best not to listen.

I light up a second cigarette, open Czeslaw Milosz's Roadside Dog hoping for a little perspective. Here's what I get:

"To Wash

At the end of his life, a poet thinks: I have plunged into so many of the obsessions and stupid ideas of my epoch! It would be necessary to put me in a bathtub and scrub me till all that dirt was washed away. And yet only because of that dirt could I be a poet of the twentieth century, and perhaps the Good Lord wanted it, so that I was of use to Him."

This is somehow a little comforting. Still there are nights when the world is big and empty, and you're hopelessly tangled up in it.

average tuesday

I walked 14 blocks to work this morning in high heels. My feet are bleeding. I am a smart girl.

Last night: revelry with the neighbors and their buddy Mark on the front porch until 12:30 or so. Then, per my M.O., couldn't sleep for awhile. At 3 AMish two really obnoxious birds decided to carry on a conversation.

Squeaky Bird 1 (right next to my window): HELLO. WHO ARE YOU. ARE YOU THERE.
Squeaky Bird 2 (a few feet away, with slight accent): HELLO WHO ARE YOU. ARE YOU THERE? DID YOU JUST SAY SOMETHING.
(dialogue repeats ad nauseum, pro infinitum, etc.)

At some point my subconscious admitted the rhythm of the bird-jerks, and I drifted serenely off to sleep. My intention was to sleep in until 8:30, skip a shower, and dash to work.

But it wasn't meant to be. At 7:30 AM, the roofers for the neighbors' place started hitting rocks with other rocks, and telling some story that involved screaming "fuuu-uuu-uuuuck!" over and over. When they started blasting Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" (JUST OUTSIDE MY WINDOW), I gave up. Laughed it off, tipped my hat to the sandman, and had breakfast with Rachel at Satellite.

I should mention that Mark is considerably older than I am. At some point last night, while Tracy was inside and Rach and Alex were hiking, I ended up hanging out with him on the porch. We somehow got on the topic of self-help programs, and he told me he's done EST and Tony Robbins and a few other ones I've heard about. In particular, we ended up on a tangent about the Tony Robbins "walking on hot coals" deal. My basic point was that while the metaphor is a powerful one, and I wasn't denying its potency, there are a number of scientific reasons why it's really not that dangerous (one being that the bottoms of your feet are one of the toughest parts of your body, and can withstand a whole lot). I also stated that one problem I have with programs like Tony Robbins is that people go to them and perform these symbolic rites and claim that their lives have been changed forever, but sometimes they have serious issues to address--alcoholism, drug addiction, etc.--and while walking over hot coals is empowering it shouldn't replace therapy and/or relevant treatment.

Mark's side of the "discussion" had more to do with his personal experiences than anything else, and at some point we both didn't know what we were talking about anymore, and I asked him how we got on the topic. He had no idea.

All of this is indicative of how absurd, fascinating, and wonderful life here has been so far. Last night was awesome. I'm really glad we have a front porch and can hold war counsels/barbecues late into the night. It feels trite to state this, but all of the people I've met these past two weeks are really, really great, and goddamnit that's an admission from the heart.

Glumming it.

This morning. So productive. Breezed through my work and caught up with goings-on in the world. Then suddenly something shifts in my chest. Maybe I shouldn't allow myself to listen to this song over and over again. That might have something to do with it. Now here I sit, intently sitting.

I'm wearing my new yellow dress with black polka dots, and I feel a little bit like a superhero and a little bit like a 50s housewife, which you'd think would be a paradox but somehow it isn't.

Stacen and I spoke about sand cats this morning after she sent me some pictures, and I just think they're so cool. I wish they were native to this country so that you could have one living in your flower bed, and every now and then it would just poke its head out--pop!--like a meerkat but EVEN BETTER. That, and you'd have no pests! Maybe it'd even scare away the local cats that probably give yowling concertos in the alleyways of your building. I dunno 'bout that last part, though. They don't seem to be all that ferocious.

I've decided I'm gonna learn to play all of "White Blood Cells" on guitar, song by song.

Dear Body,

Good morning, you ramshackle old house. You cheated me. Yesterday you were tautness and coordination, the efficient machine of a swimmer. Today every bit of you aches out my age. My back is an intricate sailor's knot. Two awkward bumps have been cut more prominently into the flesh of my arms, and they squeal with every movement how they don't belong. My legs, peppered with bruises, are killing me to walk. The joints at my hips and knees can't process electrical signals from my brain very well. I feel a bit like an old marionette who sat in a box forgotten for 30 years. All my strings have somehow been criss-crossed and a few of my limbs were crumpled askew.

Still, I staggered down to the porch just now with a cup of coffee, book, and cigarettes in tow. I'm not all that angry at you, body. You served me well yesterday. Everything's in this apartment now even though it's a mess. I have a whole week to settle in.

I read on the couch for a few minutes and had a smoke. The air was still with the promise of more rain, and nobody moved on the street. A few cars passed nearby, their engines a distant roar, a big cat's lullaby. Sunday took me into the palm of its hand. My brain relaxed into the humidity.

Today, if you cooperate, a few of these boxes and garbage bags will be emptied. I'll make this place into even more of a home and less of a lair. No going back to the cave-living of Chestnut Hill from now on--this is it.

I'm definitely going to test out my new bread maker. I was able to find the manual online, and the French bread recipe's simple. I'm almost out of bread now, and I'm going to bake a loaf for the neighbors too. What a night last night, after a full day of work. I left for bed early, at around 9, and everyone was understanding. Still, just 5 or 10 minutes after I locked the door, there was a knock on it. "Julia?" Alex called in, "I know you're going to bed, but I just wanted to let you know that we have wine, and if you want some, you're welcome to it." I thanked him and passed, but yes. Life is beginning. I love it here, and everything so far--even with all the car trips and all the heavy lifting, even though you hurt in a way you haven't in at least 10 years--has been full of promise, everything indicates that more than being worth all the effort, this could really be something great.

I don't wanna jinx it. I don't wanna jinx anything. Like I stated yesterday, I'm weirdly superstitious on this point. But goddamn. Sisters, don't you know. There's been a lot of of Montreal in this blog lately. And alsoalso, Florence and the Machine touches on the feeling a bit.

Alright, you. My coffee's already lukewarm. I think Alex's son (Yakob? or Jacob?) is watching cartoons of the old Warner Brothers variety. Muffled dialogue and the occasional intrusion of characteristic music--always tuba-heavy, always a little insidious--are coming through the ceiling. A leitmotif. If Oliver reads this, he'll be proud. The music that always plays when Bugs Bunny's being pursued by Elmer Fudd and is just about to outsmart him.

Time to start the day. I'll lurk in bed a bit longer, and then I'll throw a few ingredients into a machine. Soon the smell of baking bread will be everywhere in the apartment.

Body, you've done what you had to do. At least for today, hurt as much as you need to hurt. You've earned it.

Love from your animating consciousness,
Julia

Now is one of those times.

Often I'm afraid that if I articulate how wonderful and right something is, I'll cheapen it. It'll lose some of its luster, or I'll set my expectations too high.

Now is one of those times.

Yes.