I am listening to Bob Dylan—not one of his anthems of the sixties, but “Mr. Tamborine Man” which I have fond memories of, since it was (is?) one of the few songs I could (can?) play on the piano. I was planning on going to lunch as soon as I finished the list of schools in North Carolina only…there are a lot of schools in North Carolina. So I will blog.
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for today!
After posting last night I realized that I did not have to work at Job B, so instead I headed down to “A Taste of Heaven,” ate strawberry shortcake and worked on the bell hollee project. For two hours. I think I begin to understand what authors mean when they say they are “pregnant” with a story, because, even though I was trepidatious about the party scene, it came easily enough once I shifted locations. And the scene after that is there, and the one after that and so on. And I don’t even mind that it’s terrible, because—well, a story like this requires a shipful of research, so of course it will be terrible until I manage to get some grant money to do some “research” down in Nevis.
Having said that, I’m still antsy and anxious. Perhaps something to do with the fact I’m cooped up inside all day (hello, five-pound weight gain, where did that come from?!) staring at my dirty floors. Then last night when I was journaling I realized that I will probably be gone from this place in two weeks and THEN I started fretting about packing. Having made the decision to leave Chicago, I’m ready to go. Had it not been for this last temp job, I think I would have been gone by now. The whole situation is just—I’m ready to leave. Ready and willing.
Today is also Valentine’s Day, and I thought I would avoid the hype by sitting at home, but even NPR conspires against me, using cutesy phrases like “There’s no love lost between Obama and Hillary!” and doing in-depth reports on how much roses cost this year. I’m not as upset about Valentine’s Day as I usually am. Sure, I’m single, but, eh, what else is new? I’m working out my new attitude of singular poetess, in the tradition of mediveal nuns who gave up men for the ability to read. I could go lusting after a lifestyle that clearly I’m clearly unsuited to (i.e., dating) or I could work within the “limitations” of the lifestyle I’m already leading, and instead of moping about after the unattainable sit down and bang out the next great American play. The only thing I’m lusting after right now is a Puppy, and, being the self-sustaining woman of the new millennium that I am, I can very well buy one for myself. Heck with you, V-Day, I’m going back to work.