I suppose sometimes my writing is reminiscent of overripe fruit, strings of hackneyed, honeyed words that I like, stale romantic litanies that hang like paper stars from black wires.
I guess I could try a more real approach, use rougher words – like barks of tree? No! Concrete. Wool. Mold. Tie-dyed colors that do not look good together.
I also suppose sometimes my writing is too melancholic, or “mopey”. “It seems like not fitting in is a common theme for your blog,” said one of my friends, words that are funny because they are just one little step away from the truth. I guess I may sound like I’m adrift every now and then, but over all I am quite happy. And to remind myself of this, I am going to turn my mopey face upside down, or at a slight tilt to the right and see the world from a different, happy angle.
There was the day of the sun. It was finally warm enough for me to sit outside on my balcony in just a sweatshirt (and pjs, socks, of course), have my tea, and feel my thoughts dissolve like ink in warm water, the comfortable state of being in which all you have to do is exist. I felt good, relaxed, happy. Like a yellow smiley face. Or a fat baby bird nestled under its mother’s feathers.
Then there was the day of fondue and gifts. There was a scavenger hunt, with clues that rhymed and hid under tables and sofas and finally led me to a gorgeous teapot. “It’s perfect!” I squealed, “I know!” squealed my cute Santa in her white shirt. There were a series of well-chosen gifts, as if they were bought with the person standing right there. Like you picked out a color and held it below their chin, nodded approval, yes, this color looks good on you.
And then there was cheese. It melted in the steel fondue pot, rich, creamy, happiness made tangible, palatable, edible! Bread, apple, snap peas, broccoli, baby carrots skewered on long sticks that danced around each other in the pot, sometimes a piece of bread would down, or a carrot would disappear beneath the waves of cheese, but then it would be found and set back on its path to our stomachs. Then there was chocolate: dark chocolate and coconut, angel cake, pretzels, oranges, apples again (I don’t care for apples except on trees and in pies). Oh so stuffed, like containers and trucks loaded high with cargo in Pakistan, barely able to move.
Games that make your mind jump out of your head and dive headfirst (ha.ha.) into a gutter, and turn you into 12-year-old boys who giggle when they say or hear the word “penetrate”; the LiEbrarian with its strangely detailed rules on exposure to socialization with real people and Liz wrote about Twinkies so everyone linked the HIV sentence to her and what a conniving liEbrarian Ellie was!
There’s more, yes, but I’m sleepy and I have to read about Game Theory, which my professor promises can lead to practical, applicable solutions to world problems, strategies that work, she had said.
But later I will talk about the explosion of cultures on Friday, a celebration of the Lunar New Year that was musical and beautiful and lit up like a bright bulb in front of me, Eureka! This is why I’m here! It winked and disappeared.