I’ve been working on the TCP afghan all week, so it is with a heavy heart that I sat there and pulled out all of the “Delft Blue” yesterday. There was three days’ worth of work down the drain.
I don’t have any clothes with me, really, since I thought I’d be going home and coming back up, so I’m hoping to get to Walmart. I’m also hoping to get over and see the College Professor.
I’m so hungry to hear from folks I’m not related to. I’ve got nothing to say. Nothing is going on here that’s any different than the day before. So, I hate calling folks, but I could listen to the most mundane crap in folks’ lives for hours on end if it meant that I had something new to know.
Otherwise, I’m going to be left sharing with you such stirring observations as that I feel like The Joyful Noiseletter has gotten a little sanctimonious and conservative in its old age and how I haven’t bothered to check my work email in two days, so now I’m dreading it.
The Butcher may leave tomorrow, depending on the weather. I saw a couple of hawks yesterday. My mom has this lotion I’ve been using that makes me smell like dessert. And I went to my mom’s eye appointment yesterday and it turns out she’s got some condition basically brought on by her being Northern European.
So much for the genetic superiority of the white race–apparently there are all kinds of conditions white folks can come down with as a result of being white: bad eyes, weird internal splotches, weird external redness, etc.
Under ordinary circumstances, I could make interesting (at least to me) posts out of all of those things, but these are not ordinary circumstances. And, though I love you, Illinois, sometimes when I come home here, I feel myself slipping into the life of the girl I would have been, had I not been so lucky. I can imagine her/me, driving back and forth along flat roads that curve and curve again only to follow new property lines, trying hard to focus on the road right in front of her or the great sky over her, pretending that her life was as large as she cared for it to be.
I come here and I lose track of days. I lose track of what’s going on in the outside world. I get uncomfortable about calling my friends. I start to worry about the dishes and what we’ll have for dinner and whether everyone is properly dressed. I start to give a shit about all the small town gossip and consider cutting my hair into that short, severe, midwestern poof all the women around me seem to favor–because it’s no fuss. Because I don’t want to be a fuss. Let’s no one be too much of a fuss.
Well, that’s depressing.
I’m going to go get in the shower.