 Ride On |
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My mom and I went to a retreat on Saturday. We picked our names for the day out of a basket. Hers was "Groovy." Mine was "Arabesque." Never were two less fitting names assigned. The retreat was good, I guess. We did all of these "prayer exercises" with our eyes closed. In one of them, we were instructed to visualize the path to our inner self and what our inner self would look like when we got there. My path was lined with thorny bushes that were on fire and I kept falling into holes on the way to my inner self, which for some reason I pictured as Mandy's cottage. The leader told us to imagine what we would do when we reached our inner self. I imagined myself sitting in a corner, hugging my knees. I have no idea what this means, but clearly it merits discussion with my therapist. We had to address each other by our new names, which made the conversation over lunch interesting. "Diversity," my mom said to a woman across the table in a Cookie Monster t-shirt, "Where are you from?" I said a few minutes later, somehow keeping a straight face, "Where do you teach storytelling, Intrepid?" The day culminated with each of us galloping on a stick horse around the room to the beat of a song called "Ride, Jesus, Ride!" Yeah. My friends and I watched some kind of redneck comedy concert the other night over jambalaya and margaritas and blueberry crisp. I appalled myself by laughing until I actually lost control of my faculties and snorted. What is wrong with me? Last night I dreamt that my sister killed one man by throwing him into a swimming pool when he was drunk, and he drowned, and she shot another one. And we had to go on the lam. What is wrong with me? I painted my study / guest room yellow. "Carriage Light." It's very fucking yellow. These pictures do not even begin to capture the color. I bought a lovely powdery lavendar color for my bathroom and I cannot wait to paint it even though painting the other room strained muscles in my body that I did not know I had, and the roller kept flying off of the long stick and hurling itself across the room, splattering paint all over the bed, the computer, and the carpet in the process. Once the roller landed on my face. I was very lazy with the visquine and regret it now. I rammed my shin into the bed frame and it immediately swelled up like a big purple, green, and yellow golf ball. I think the yellow paint all over the rest of my body complimented the bruise nicely. Painting is dangerous. I rented Igby Goes Down and liked it very much although I was somewhat squicked out by a scene with Claire Danes crying because she totally morphed into Angela Chase before my eyes and it was an odd association. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days might have the stupidest premise of all time, but I didn't entirely hate it. Part of me did, but part of me cannot help but be somewhat charmed by the man who to me will always be no one but Wooderson, you know? I don't know if I'll ever be able to like Kate Hudson in anything but Almost Famous, though. She's just a little too much to stomach, and I thought her hair was grotesquely yellow in this movie (sort of like my walls), and to put her in a yellow dress was just a poor choice because she looked like a skinny rail o' jaundice. I did entirely, wholly, all-consumingly hate The Sweetest Thing. One of my girlfriends forced it upon me, swearing I would love it, and I think it's the worst movie I've ever seen, right down there with Vanilla Sky and Beverly Hills Cop 3. I'm not kidding. Run, do not walk, from anyone who recommends this utter crap. It was just mortifyingly bad. This fall I'm going to Martha's Vineyard. I'm also going to JournalCon. Are you? Why not? I'm feeling this weird combination of lethargy and listlessness these days. Like I can't sit still in my own skin but I'm too tired to get up and do anything about it. It's kind of unpleasant. Motivating to paint a room here and there is like a triumph of will for me. And I want to talk to my doctor about weaning myself off of the Effexor, which terrifies me, but I think I'm more terrified to stay on it. Because I just want to be me again. I need to know that I can cope without medicinal crutches. But I go to these websites which say that getting off of it sends electric shocks through your brain, and that does not sound one bit nice. Somehow I have been sucked in again to Big Brother. How is this possible? I don't want to spend my summer watching this garbage three nights a week. I've started brushing the cats with an old Avon roller brush that I bought from one of my sophomores a few years ago who was selling Avon for his mom. Marley loves it. She rolls around on the brush if I leave it lying on the floor. She thrusts her body against me if I'm anywhere near the brush, demanding that I commence immediately. Khaki hates it. She won't even come in the room if the brush is within. Both cats have dandruff. Why? Why? One day I will write an entry with content of a substantive nature; however, that day is obviously not today. Thanks to those who wrote to express solidarity following the cockroach episode from hell. It's good to know I'm not alone in this freakish fear and folly.
© Copyright 2003 elb |
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