today, i am painfully sick of myself. there must be a word for this phenomenon - to be incredibly sick of yourself. i went back to yoga tonight, the first time in a month, a small sweaty room, i tried to get rid of myself through my pores. your body is the only body you have, the yogi says. that's unfortunate i think. i would like to take mine off and try on another. i would like to compact myself. i would like to recycle myself. would i be paper or plastic. today i drove on the highway for 4 hours, stuck in traffic, cleveland and back. coming home from creative nonfiction workshop, the ramp was closed, so i had to circle around a city i don't know to try to find the highway. wearing the most awful headache. bought groceries. left my debit card at the bagel place, i wanted to get wheat bagels for the mornings before we leave because poor john woke up at 6am this morning to get wheat bagels and they didn't have any, discovered that i left my debit card while i was at the bank a mile away, had to go back, it was hot sweaty fucking hot i collapsed into the most childlike tantrum of tears at the steering wheel, complaining to business-john on the phone, fucking manager of the bagel place thought it would be the time to cutesy joke with me about how someone took the card and bought two shirts with it at the mall and they were about $70 each, i looked at him with the blankest of stares, mascara having sort of clotted around my cheeks and even my chin from the sweat and tears. no smile no snarl. just blank. yesterday i thought i will only write operas. sometimes i feel i only live them. the most banal type of opera. the other day a student in one of my comp classes asks me what the word "banal" means. i want to say, life. life is banal. my life is banal. that's banal. look at me. banal.
obviously this was meant for no one to read. i don't know why we write of the quotidian, why we need to resurrect the most dull and ordinary, the knocking over the plastic container of vinegar at the sink to keep off fruitflies, akron has the most crazy abundance of fruit flies, the dead fruit flies swirl around the white sink, the faucet washes them away, once i get home i go in bed to watch gossip girl. lately i do everything in bed. yesterday i have to let in the woman in charge of the cleaning company who will be cleaning our apartment at least once a month, we've finally caved, we are so busy, there is dust everywhere, and she sees the occupied bed, that contains books and dishes and things, i used to have a roommate who would when she would have her breakdowns have the entire contents of the kitchen cabinets in her bed, empty ice cream bowls and boxes of cereal and fashion magazines, i take from this in my novel green girl, is this what they will want to cut out, the breakdown scene, i think for some reason it's important and essential to write the breakdown and not just write when we're clear and clever and can engage with french theory. anyway, we get into this conversation about paper on the floor. she says, anything on the floor we'll throw away. i say no, we recycle. but, anyway, i say, if there's writing on it, even if it's on the floor, don't touch it, don't do anything with it. she's in disbelief. don't disturb the piles of paper. i have mammoth piles of paper as i save every scrap from every manuscript i work on, i guess i hoard manuscripts in a way. and i wonder what they'll think if they look at any of the writing on the paper. it's like when i had all of these quotations by artaud on my bulletin board while writing monkey's notebook in shadow and wondered what my landlord josh thought of it.
on a not-totally-self-involved note, am glad to see jackie wang and mike kitchell blogging it up over at html giant, will definitely be going over there more to read their posts, very essential i think queer/feminist/radical/high-art-theory-representation for that space. jackie wang wrote an interesting post about intimacy and the public sphere of writing, and new narrative, which i'm also kind of writing to in the essay collection, as i think new narrative is the most important contemporary literary "school" for me (movement? school? style? tradition? anti-tradition? we are actually doing a new narrative anthology at nightboat, dodie bellamy and kevin killian are editing it). and already mike name-dropped like six authors i've never heard of, specifically dealing with french writers of the post-nouveau-roman, which to me is a sort of jouissance milkshake, to learn about never-heard-of writers in the context of writers i dig, the extra-thick kind.