Running vs. Swimming

Running and swimming are both great exercise. I'm more of a swimmer, but when I can't make it to the pool, I like to go for a run.

When I go swimming I look like a sleek dolphin moving gracefully and swiftly through the waves. Other women in the locker room tell me sometimes that they like to watch me swim. When I go running, I look like a stumbling elephant. It is a lesson in humility. Passing motorists try not to stare. I want to tell them that I am a great swimmer, that I am just having a flare-up of tendinitis right now and need to take a break, but of course there is no way to do that.

But now the Nintendo Wii offers friendly encouragement while I run in place in my living room. I am in heaven. It keeps asking me how much I weigh though. Weird.

Today Is A Good Day Today

This morning was chilly. A good day for a bathrobe.

Even though my tendinitis acted up during my swim, but whatever. Hardly anybody was at the pool today so I got to float around in the deep end a little. How relaxing.

Something else kind of cool happened to me today. I got some weird collect call messages on my voice mail that made me think someone I happened to be really pissed off at was in jeopardy, and immediately just felt really worried and so realized in a hurry that I actually do care about the person a lot and suddenly wasn't mad. Human emotions are weird and bizarre but today they seem slightly more manageable than in recent history. Once I figured out the mystery, listening to the message the third time through, I relaxed. (Although some unfortunate soul still has a wrong number.) And now I just got a phone call from said person. I hate my life. I love my life.

I've been translating Celan for the last two days. My brain feels tired but good. If I make it through tonight without drinking, I will be happy with myself. I think I used to be funny. Oh well.

A Good Idea About Feeling Sorry For Yourself

A wise woman told me last night that it is alright to feel sorry for yourself for twenty minutes a day. A Twenty Minute Pity Party she called it. I should indulge myself. This is just another reason not to drink. Drinking makes it harder to stick to the time limit. I am trying to come up with compelling reasons. Thank you.

My Awful Birthday. Sob! Whine!

iPhoto is currently not sucking.

(If iPhoto was not currently sucking ass, there would be a picture of my friend Lettice here making frozen pizza. It was thick-crusted with asagio cheese and pepperoni. Yummy.)

My birthday really did suck though. Now I have some decisions to make. But enough about my birthday sucking. It can only get better from here. I hope.

Last night I hung out with good people and we watched a silly movie and painted our nails and ate brie and talked. I had a very good time. Having grown up a tomboy with lots of guy friends, I have been learning lately how fun and restorative it is to get really girly sometimes. My fingernail color is currently silver.

There is one more really important thing that I would like to discuss today. It is that McDonald's iced coffee is actually a form of liquid diabetes. Also, clearly emblazoned across the plastic cup is the kicky little slogan, 'I'm lovin' it.' But I did not love it. I did drink it though. I am desperately seeking a new vice.

Plus I have been sober for the last fourteen hours and thirty-seven minutes. Yeah me! I am not feeling very dedicated to sobriety right now but whatever. Maybe I'll give it another shot. Technically I wasn't drunk though. Does that count? I already know what they would say. I did finally take all my booze and pour it down the sink. I do not want to be a lush. Luscious would be okay. Thank you.

Just Because I Turn 33 Today Doesn't Mean I Have To Start Acting Like Jesus.

Richard III: Another famous 33 year old.

I wanted to do something really special with this year. I really did. But lately, the thought of forming a new religion, healing lepers, attacking church corruption, and getting painfully crucified in a Mel Gibson-directed snuff film has overwhelmed me somewhat. Especially since there is another (in)famous 33 year old whose footsteps I could follow in. Now, I don't have two nephews, and according to my mother, my niece is strictly off limits, but I'm sure I could be compelled to lock two of the world's most annoying house cats in a North Oakland turret somewhere and call it a day. The way I see it, kidnapping, usurpation of the throne, and civil war are much easier to indulge oneself in than just running around being compassionate all the time. Of course Richard III was hacked to death on a battlefield. Hmmm. Maybe I will just sit around North Oakland with my cats and write crappy poetry for another year.

Jenny Drai, We Wish We Were You

A close look. Sort of.

Jenny Drai, you are a magnificent example
of the human race. It’s not raining but the grey.
You desire the wind in sheaths. Jenny Drai,
if you catch those streaks, your aim is true
and deeply accurate. A difference between the two
phenomenon, mostly in level of decorum, a topic
that you, Jenny Drai, do not seem to care much about
although it is true that while you pronounce
‘fuck’ to your father, you say only ‘frick’ to your mother.
We stand behind your behavior on every level, Jenny
Drai, and admire you secretly for your ability
to drink vehemently at the bar although we think
you had better put down the scotch before you kill
more of your indispensable brain cells. Clearly
you are some kind of genius. For example, you
quickly discerned while watching your favorite television
program La Casa such-and-such that Alfredo had saved
the day, although the show is in Spanish
and you do not speak Spanish. Jenny Drai,
you think abjuration will be easy but the scotch
is a clear amber liquid whispering your name.
Jenny Drai. Jenny Drai. Jenny Drai,
when you attended the poetry reading you were
like a stealthy but powerful shark slipping past the table
of wine without bothering to contribute a single
dollar to the plastic cup of donations.
Double-fisting is not a problem for you, Jenny Drai,
especially when you are mixing the wine with
Orangina and it floats down like water
as you quickly reach your final goal.
Jenny Drai, you are the champion!
The table has not been the same since although
you leave the reading halfway through to stumble
home below a drapery of moonlight and some
tender moths. You do not want to be here,
Jenny Drai. You want to be somewhere else.
The porch lights shine as you pass them
in the cool temperature of night. Jenny Drai,
you are going to wake up tomorrow and ask
yourself where you are. Who you ought to be.
Never fear. We are going to tell you.

Jenny Drai, Are You Going To Go In The Ocean Or What?

Dedicated to that young couple awkwardly
trying to make it in the sand. Be safe!

Had you better not. You had better,
surely. Yes, you’re right as usual. I had
better just right now I won’t quite yet
but soon. Are you frightened.
I am. But you don’t like to admit it.
True enough. That’s why I’m
biting fingernails to shreds. Well,
maybe you had better not after all.
No I want to. The payoff will be huge.
Your heart is thumping. I can see your
throat jumping. Well, this is
difficult for me. Of course it is.
It’s not easy for me either. But you’re
not afraid of anything. Oh, I assure you
I am. For example, I will not
drink very cold water directly before
bedtime. I hardly know what
to say to that. Don’t say anything.
Just give me your hand. Well, here it is.
What are we going to do. We are going
to wait. What else are you
afraid of. I will not eat hot pizza
pies for at least five minutes
after they are cooked. It sounds like you just
have sensitive teeth. That is different
from being really, truly afraid of something.
Hush. Watch the waves and the crest
of the waves. What are we going to do after
we wait. We are going to stroll across
the grains of sand. You’re really
going to make me do this, aren’t you.
Yes. Do I have to get my face wet.
Yes. You have to jump through at least
one wave. What if a shark swims past
and bumps my leg. I would pass out
and drown. The statistical proba-
bility of—Don’t talk to me about statistics
when it comes to sharks! You’re not being
rational. Maybe not. But I am addicted
to not ending up in the sharp, snapping
jaws of death. Our conversation
tires me. I’m not going to talk
this over with you anymore. You are
obviously determined to remain
irrational. Sure, irrational and alive.
You can go swim in the ocean and be shark
bait if you want. I’m going to sit right
here and drink beer until I sunburn. Chicken.
Who’s a chicken. You’re a daredevil.
We could compromise. You could just get
your feet wet. And get seaweed
on my legs? Let me pound back my golden
canned beer first. And maybe another one.
For luck. This is getting ridiculous.
I agree. We should stop. I think
I saw a jellyfish.

Jenny Drai, Your Kung Fu Is Sooo Strong.

The Culprit

Jenny Drai, your bleached hair denotes
a nunnery of tenses. The trees in the yard
stay open, Jenny Drai, as you lunge
through the foliage on a complicated
system of wires. Jenny Drai, you are
obsessed with the repetition of your own
name. Who else will run out of the mind
to slip across the symmetries? It is you,
of course, if you are really wondering.
Jenny Drai, when you boil water, the clear
liquid scalds the pan with the imprint
of your fantastic and partially
unbelievable exploits, although you claim
to have some sort of photographic evidence.
Where you are storing this evidence
is a mystery to the rest of us as we
slurp the noodles you prepare, the broth
salty, like Jenny Drai is salty when she gets
a little drunk and pulls out her wit
like a short, quick sword and thrusts
repeatedly. Jenny. Drai. Jenny
Drai, you do not live in the past as a
memory. You put it on like clothing
when you need to learn from your
mistakes and raise your sword
for the final battle. Jenny Drai, I know you’re
hiding the expensive bottle of scotch
we chipped in on together under your bed.
I know that after a long day you quietly
sneak into the kitchen for two ice cubes
and a glass and that you then retreat
to your comfortable bedchamber where
you partake of the smoky, peaty
flavor alone. Jenny Drai, when I sense
that you are clandestinely
rolling the liquid over your
tongue, I feel my half of twenty-eight dollars
and ninety-nine cents flushing down the toilet,
but I don’t say anything to you because
I know beneath your mellow, calm,
reserved exterior, you are cut throat.
I would hate to lose you, Jenny Drai, to a petty
argument or even to a major one in which,
perhaps, we might share the same lover
at overlapping times unbeknownst
to each other and then suddenly the truth
would confront us, the tea house
would clear as we kicked over tables
and smashed balconies with our self-
righteous fury. And because we have chased
everyone else away, we will have to clean
up the strewn dumplings ourselves and all
the splinters wrested from the furniture.
There is a story in this.
There is evidence in this.

More Stupid Astrology Stuff

Supposedly, I am supposed to be really good with money. This causes a really high level of mirth to be felt by me because I can't really balance my checkbook. Also, up to now, my only real retirement plan involves a bottle of scotch and a shotgun. Thank you.