But now, I don't find myself bouncing home whistling buttonhole tunes to make me cry
Mr. Pinky was back today. New and improved. Traded in his ballet-pink turtlenecks for a striking orange-pink button-down shirt. In fact, precisely the color I've been looking for to brighten up my wardrobe. He took the desk behind mine in the library. Must be a good omen.
I have to publicly apologize to the 12 people I owe emails and the 7 people I owe phone calls, the four people I've rainchecked too many times for dinner dates, the two people I've put off having lunch with, my mother because I told her I would call her tonight and didn't, my sister, whom I haven't talked to in about two weeks, my father, whom I haven't talked to in two months, my brother -- Dani, I don't even know where that email is with the acculink number I have to use to reach you in Israel -- but I will find it, I will! and I'll finally call you. Damn. Yes, it is that time of the month again. Los examens, como los gusta.
I've been daydreaming about the swing behind my grandmother's house and lying in it and staring up at the sky through the branches of the pomegranate tree and thinking about anything in the world that isn't cardiovascular physiology. And the beach. Nine days. I am so close. I can smell it already, I swear. Everytime I walk past the new playground to my apartment building, I smell the sea.
I miss writing fiction. I feel like that part of my imagination has totally atrophied. I can't even speak English anymore, at some point, somehow, it turned to Medicalese. I miss thinking about life with the right side of my brain. I wonder if the damage is irreversible. For a brief moment I thought maybe I could turn my blog into a serial fictional story. I think that's a great idea, if there are any budding writers out there. Think about it, there's so much more you could say in a fictional story. All the juicey stuff in life never makes it into blogs because of inhibitions, self respect, tact, thoughtfulness, and wisdom. All overrated. But a story, not to mention an extended one with regular installments, is so out of my league right now. I don't even have the mental space to imagine a character, forget the rest.
And knitting. My sad scarf is collecting dust in the back of my closet.
Mr. Pinky was back today. New and improved. Traded in his ballet-pink turtlenecks for a striking orange-pink button-down shirt. In fact, precisely the color I've been looking for to brighten up my wardrobe. He took the desk behind mine in the library. Must be a good omen.
I have to publicly apologize to the 12 people I owe emails and the 7 people I owe phone calls, the four people I've rainchecked too many times for dinner dates, the two people I've put off having lunch with, my mother because I told her I would call her tonight and didn't, my sister, whom I haven't talked to in about two weeks, my father, whom I haven't talked to in two months, my brother -- Dani, I don't even know where that email is with the acculink number I have to use to reach you in Israel -- but I will find it, I will! and I'll finally call you. Damn. Yes, it is that time of the month again. Los examens, como los gusta.
I've been daydreaming about the swing behind my grandmother's house and lying in it and staring up at the sky through the branches of the pomegranate tree and thinking about anything in the world that isn't cardiovascular physiology. And the beach. Nine days. I am so close. I can smell it already, I swear. Everytime I walk past the new playground to my apartment building, I smell the sea.
I miss writing fiction. I feel like that part of my imagination has totally atrophied. I can't even speak English anymore, at some point, somehow, it turned to Medicalese. I miss thinking about life with the right side of my brain. I wonder if the damage is irreversible. For a brief moment I thought maybe I could turn my blog into a serial fictional story. I think that's a great idea, if there are any budding writers out there. Think about it, there's so much more you could say in a fictional story. All the juicey stuff in life never makes it into blogs because of inhibitions, self respect, tact, thoughtfulness, and wisdom. All overrated. But a story, not to mention an extended one with regular installments, is so out of my league right now. I don't even have the mental space to imagine a character, forget the rest.
And knitting. My sad scarf is collecting dust in the back of my closet.
posted by tami at 2:04 AM
2 Comments:
hey tamar! don't worry, i don't have my phone on very much anyway, and i've been really bad about calling people also. and being sick for over a month straight does weird stuff to my mood, even though i would've liked to think that i had some self control over how i felt.
love, dani
hey bim! you're still sick?? aren't there any doctors they can refer you to? is it a cold-like thing or does it still feel like a stomach virus? p.s. i heard you got placed at Sde E. as for jobs, try to stay away from the laundry room and the dining room. (p.s. i'm writing this from your computer, hope you don't mind). love you,
tamar
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