Monday, August 21, 2006

It's like he read my mind and wrote it for me

While reading the August 7&14, 2006 New Yorker, I came upon this quote:

"'I am tired of my own thoughts and fancies and my own mode of expressing them, ' Hawthorne wrote not many months before he died."
These past few weeks, my own thinking mirrors that line. Hell, who am I fooling; I've felt that way for years.
I've been up to stuff, "adventuring" as my grandfather J.E.S. would call it.
  • I've closed Gallagher's (#264) the past three Fridays.
  • Helped a couple celebrate at their wedding reception.
  • Invited and bought drinks for two total strangers I bumped into on Clark Street at one in the morning (Eric and Sergio, hello).
  • Bummed cigarettes to strangers under a ranchero beat while staring at large, barely-hidden breasts on not-really-attractive bartenders.
  • Bought a drink for a lovely-looking woman with short, Midnight Black hair who turned out to be an ex-prostitute from New York, now lost in Rogers Park depressed and bi-polar and asking me if I think she should trust the man in the pink shirt. "I don't need you! I don't need anyone!" The Ugly Lights turned on, and I walked out into the morning confused and lonely.
  • Completely fumbled hitting on a brown-eyed, brunette at The Green Eye (# 268) even after she said the picture of Woody Guthrie (or is it a young Bob Dylan?) looked like me. "I just saw you from over there, and your eyes are really pretty. They sparkle, they're beautiful."
  • Went to The Red Light (# 267) with friends and drank wayoverpriced vodka, but dug the interior look. "This is what bars, cafes, and the streets in Spain are like, Mac," B.H-T. said. But I'll never know, I thought.
  • Stood behind the Landmark Arts on cobblestones, smoking cigarettes and gulping vodka and something, pretending I was in New York in the fall. Laughing with friends. Feeling involved in life. Pretending I was cool and a somebody.
  • Took a twenty minute nap in my office at work. Then went to lunch.
  • Helped to facilitate these two friends getting into a show at The John Galt Gallery, and had a great time at opening night. Later went to the L&L (# 259) and El Jardin's (# 101) with my boss and her friend for beers, margaritas, and tequila shots all the while getting hugged, kissed on the cheeks, and insulted (sometimes all at once which is a strange feeling).
  • Asked to watch my neighbor's pets again while they vacation, even after my last goof-up.

So things are happening, sort of, in a way; but, I can't seem to get into the Writing Rhythm. My nose is always dipped in the sauce, pressed to the grind, or buried in a pillow. I am stuck in my ways, and my ways aren't taking me anywhere.

When you're not even sure where you want to go, it makes it that much harder to find the way.

Out of practice, out of patience, out of energy, out of time.

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