ESTRAGON: I can't go on like this.
VLADIMIR: That's what you think.

Waiting for Godot
Samuel Beckett


Day 12.

Didn’t the Wise Men make it all the way to Jesus in this amount of time? That was always my impression anyways.


Well, let’s review some lessons learned from this experience, shall we?

  1. A mucus plug lost does not a baby bring.
  2. Doyle is a pediatrician, not an OB/GYN.
  3. I can blather on about just about anything for 500 words.

There’s no news on the baby front. None, zilch, zippo. I’m beginning to feel a bit offended frankly. Does this little fishy know I wanna hold her/him? Can’t she/he hear how excited I am to meet him/her? (Leave it to me to be offended by my own unborn child.)

But blather on I shall, if blather on I must.


What an amazing ego-high to be mentioned in iceowl’s last daylog along with his father and his writing. Icey’s an amazing guy, and an amazing writer; but as Doyle will attest, he tends to fuzz up on the minor details, or perhaps, more generously, he’s writing them as he sees ‘em, like an umpire calling a favorite pitcher’s slider which just misses an on-the-black strike instead of the ball that it is.

Fact is: I work a way shittier day job than iceowl, and get paid way less to do it. And while I may make money as a writer, it’s way less than say a B-level competition ballroom dancer makes doing that.

Fact is: I didn’t move to Seattle because it was a better place from which to be a playwright. There is no good place to be a playwright, because to be a playwright is a very foolish thing. I suppose if you had to pick the best place to live to be a playwright, it would be London. I’ve never been there. And then second best would be New York City. I’ve lived there twice. I moved to Seattle to raise my kids because every kid in New York City is, to some degree, a wise-assed, dead-eyed punk, and since my kids will have a genetic predisposition toward that kind of attitude anyway, I figured I’d better raise them in an ameliorating “nicey-nice” Lefty sorta setting like here (though between you and me, I generally love New Yorkers and hate Seattleites-- go figure.)

Fact is: I do have a scar on my face— product of a short career as a New York window cleaner— but people still fuck with me all the time. Just this morning I was pushing on the revolving door to my building, absent-mindedly wondering how horrible it would be if I had to watch my wife get a c-section, when the door abruptly stopped . I looked up to see a guy caught in the door cussing at me for not watching what I was doing. For some damned reason I immediately hollered back at him for trying to squeeze into the same quarter section of the door as his fat-assed girlfriend, instead of going one at a time like a homo sapiens. This pair was clearly a casting reject from the Springer show, so I wasn’t going to waste a lot of time with them. It’s my favorite feature of the revolving door: you go out, I go in. Bye-bye now!

Still it had me anxious and amped for the next half hour. I’d really like to think I’m beyond my car-kicking, street-fighting days. I shamefully recall an episode from a few years ago when I was back in New York. I kicked a car as it nearly ran me over on Queens Boulevard. The asshole stopped about 100 yards down the street, as if to say, “You wanna go?” I whipped my arms in the air to invite the confrontation. “Come on, Motherfucker!” Then I looked down and realized I had my 2 month baby boy strapped to my chest in a snuggly. Not one of my prouder moments.

Fact is: I do get louder when I drink, but I cannot for the life of me ever recall singing to icey. And if I did, then who knows what else transpired? It’s all just too disturbing to contemplate.

Fact is: and here’s the hell of it: I miss iceowl and I’ve only met him twice in my life. I want him to come up and give me an excuse to go on another glorious writers’ bender.

Whaddya say, icey? I'll sing your song.

Hi everybody! I hope you’re doing good! Today is my last day of school. Next year I’ll be in the fifth grade. I’m kinda glad that school is over because all of the kids were starting to get on each others nerves. I’ll probably miss my friends though.

I wrote another poem but I couldn’t think of a title to go along with it. I hope you like it anyway.

Here on Mother Earth
life doesn’t last too long.
Why not horse around and play?
Why not sing your songs?

I hope that as long as you live
there won’t be anger or tears.
That you spend your time wisely
and fly like birds and prance like deers

Savor moments as you savor candy bars
and don’t forget to smile.
Live your life in happiness
And be kind all the while

I hope you all have a great summer and I’ll see some of you real soon!

Bye!

/me says Standard disclaimers apply…

We ended it on the phone last night. I am not the "other woman" anymore. I am doing what is right. It was a very very selfish thing - I feel bad for his wife. Good that it is over... well... morally... but emotionally I am on the edge and my pain is a secret from RL, just like the affair was. I still care for him deeply. I woke up this morning numb - my face could hardly make an expression - it was kind of strange. It felt terrible. I guess since I am not using alcohol to drown pain anymore the other physical side-effects of breaking up are more apparent. I don't want to go back to drinking however...no point to it, makes the suffering less acute and hence more normal-feeling.

I took my first sick day from work... and read Bukowski all day. Maybe I just miss having an older man in my life who writes beautifully like my secret ex did. Bukowski is like him but more edgy and shocking. He defies convention more. In fact, after reading 60+ of his poems, I started fantasizing about and falling for him... but then remembered his hot temper and alcoholism... and the fantasies dissappeared immediately... Yes, I know he is dead, but I suspect many women fantasize about writers. It must be common. I drove around and did some practical things like finding boxes and getting cash for the movers (I'm moving out of my rip-off roommate's place on Saturday).

In the street, a man's eyes followed me for a long time and he appreciatively said "Wow"... I am a 5'9 fit blond (I am not beautiful but my silhouette is ok)- people often assume that I have this great love life - but they could not be more wrong. I wondered if the man would believe how incredibly lonely I am. How I have had no visitor to my bedroom in years...

Then... the one man I spent sweet hotel-nights with after two years of celibacy was 17-years older, married and concerned that I was falling for him too quickly. He would often ask me to cool my heart. How did it get this way? It is absurd. My University boyfriend loved me so strongly... and I returned it in kind. I thought I would always have that passion in my life... but it's gone... and all affections now are tepid or illusory. A note to people under 27 - enjoy it while it lasts.* Also... never, ever date a married person. I feel very guilty for what I have done.

Moving on... Bukowski says in "Final Story"**

the price of creation
is never
too high.

the price of living
with other people
always
is.

He may be right. So... I am focusing on my mba studies and my (handwritten) journal. I am also thinking of starting a website where guests can post ideas about various marketing/design/strategy issues. I have a little network of designers, artists, marketers and mba classmates so it might be interesting... Moving forward is much better than longing for the past. Creativity is just a different kind of passion after all... I hope. It is supplying my own light in a world of darkness as old Chinese proverb says. Plus... no one gets broken hearted.

*As a disclaimer, this is just my experience, not a proper sample size to make generalizations from.
**pg 137 of paperback You get So Alone At Times That it Just Makes Sense, 1986 Harper Collins.

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