References to Twin Peaks and Waiting to Exhale

“Who would you rather be with, Bob or Mike?”

“Mike.”

“But who would you rather see naked?”

[in unison] “Bob!”

[laughter]

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/9/91/TwinPeaksBob.jpg

Turkey is not something vegetarians eat

Yesterday, at lunch, I ate the soup that was labeled “vegetarian chili.”  Then at breakfast this morning, I overheard the cook telling someone who had eaten at a different lunch from mine, but who may have been served the same chili, “I forgot to put the menu out and let everyone know the chili was vegetarian, but it was, so I wonder if some vegetarians didn’t eat it because of that.  I cooked it with turkey burger, but it didn’t have red meat in it.”

This concerns me, not only because I probably ate some shredded dead bird yesterday, but also because it means that some people conceive of vegetarianism as being something much more fluid and subjective than it really is.  A vegetarian, as I understand it, is someone who doesn’t eat meat.  That’s rather straightforward and concrete.  Even the flexible vegetarians I know, including me, who eat fish, are rather particular about turkey, in that they don’t eat it under any circumstances.  How does a cook not understand this?

The Human Trampoline

In a nightmare with several obvious cinematic inspirations, last night I dreamt that the devil, played by Jack Nicholson, invited me over and, by feeding me food, impregnated me, despite the fact that I have no uterus.  I think he explained to me why this was.  The next day, I wanted to go swimming, but my brother wouldn’t let me; he seemed to think I ought to return to the devil’s house, for reasons I couldn’t discern.

My stay at the artists colony resumes, after a necessary interruption.  I drove back through Virginia on US-60, a road that winds enough to be scary, at night.

Today’s Lunch

Not bad!

A writing residency is a funny thing to participate in.  On an average day in Missouri, I spend about zero hours writing – one if I’m lucky, three if I’ve decided nothing else but writing is important  – but at an artists’ colony, you’re expected, or encouraged at least, to spend up to twenty-four hours on your writing.  Everyone has to sleep, of course, and you might reasonably spend up to three hours eating, but that still leaves about thirteen hours in the day to work on whatever it is you’re there to work on.

If you’re like me, of course, you might spend three hours in the morning writing, then eat lunch, maybe noodle around for a little while, and then, because you’re used to living a busy life surrounded by people who expect you to do things with yourself, your body and your brain will, instinctively or due to conditioning, expect you to leave your studio and do laundry, or cook a meal for somebody, or walk to a building for one reason or another.  But instead you’re in the middle of nowhere, and rather than do one of those things, or other things, even, all there is to do, and all that you’re expected to do, is get back to work on your big project, and continue to do so until the next meal, six hours later, and then, after that meal, you’ll be expected to return to the studio and work until you go to sleep.

In no way do I mean to complain.  What’s really beautiful about this arrangement is that you can really do whatever you want; if I want to spend all of my time at this place reading, or walking around, or trying to break my personal soy sauce record, I can do those things.  I can sleep twelve hours a day, if that’s what I’m into, or so I understand.  I guess the idea is that whatever you do, it’ll ultimately be good for you to have this time and space to do whatever you like in.

And now that I’m feeling more settled in, after a couple of days of being here, I think I get it.  It’s not really that I’m supposed to spend all of my time in the day writing stuff; rather, it’s that there are a certain number of hours in a day that I can spend productively – this is true all the time – and that if I have the luxury of being in a place where I do whatever I want and don’t even have to cook meals, chances are pretty good that I’ll manage to make good use of all those potentially good work hours.

I’ve also read two books since I got here, which is saying something.  And I’m hungrier here than I am in Missouri.  What gives!

Cows unearthed!

I’ve been hearing the mooings of cows since I arrived at this place, from my studio.  This afternoon I went out for a quick walk, as otherwise I’ve been sitting all day.  As soon as I crossed the nearest road, the guys above were there to greet me. They’re cows!  We made out for a while, and then I wandered into the forest.  I haven’t returned to my studio since.

 

They Gave the Dude a Pager

This post is the first installment in a series to be written from a mysterious location far from Missouri, my usual home.  It’s an artists colony.  I’ve just arrived, and I feel very lucky, and I also feel like I don’t belong here, which is how I feel everywhere, so it’s not that weird.  Life is a riddle, and so are so many other things.

The bed pictured is one of two beds at my disposal.  It’s in my studio, which makes me glad, because I was planning to sleep for 80% of the time I spend here, and it will make that so much easier.  Another 10% I’ll devote to contemplating my hands, another 5% to shaving.  I don’t know what I’ll do with the remaining 5% – probably listen to Ween.  I don’t know how I’ll possibly fit in my daily push-ups and eating.

 

The million people in my neighborhood

I don’t want a lethal plague or epidemic to sweep across the country and ravage the city I inhabit, partly because I would  be among the first to sicken and die, also because I would have to watch my friends die, even if I didn’t.  But at the same time, I’ve felt for the last week or so like this town I live in is unreasonably crowded.  Every time I approach an intersection, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of people on the sidewalks.  Lines everywhere are too long.  At the bakery I like to visit some mornings, I can’t seem to get a table anymore, as they are all taken.  I reiterate:  I don’t want a disease to wipe these people out, so that’s not solution to this problem I’ve decided to have.  Maybe some of them could move to Jefferson City

Ass mask

Why does this bakery play loud circus music over its stereo at 10:30 on a Monday morning?  What have we customers done to deserve this?  It’s like a bad dream, which explains why I choose to mention it on this blog.

Do you ever have mornings when you think of nothing but all the unfortunate or embarrassing things you’ve ever said or done, or which you think might have been perceived that way?  I do, and the circus music isn’t helping.

Enough about me; I just wanted to post the photo of my friend Matt wearing a donkey mask.  It’s an ass-mask!

 

On looking at someone else’s blog for the first time

This is a link to another blog post I found while looking for the publication date of a Jamaica Kincaid essay:

http://reallyrelyay.blogspot.com/2006/10/on-seeing-england-for-first-time.html

 

 

Post-Halloween Pup-Spotting

The photo is inexplicably dark, but it is clear that I saw a pup today.