where do you go to, my lovely?

tonight, i tried to go to this buddhist meditation spot in west sac, but all i found were a bunch of dimly lit trailer parks. fought traffic and dodged near-accidents to find inner peace. sort of a metaphor for life, i think. i feel like bill murray's character stepping out of the elevator in the hospital, that scene from rushmore. "i'm a little lonely these days." i tend to keep having the same conversations with everyone. a love/hate relationship with the world. watched die! die! my darling on tcm, commercial-free. i love commercial-free films. especially retro b-movies starring girls like stefanie powers. an old-school modern gothic tale, just the way i like them told.

i decided one minute to have nothing for dinner, then everything, including honey roasted peanuts, the next. i randomly burst out into song earlier, and for some reason it was, "where did you sleep last night?" i didn't have a guitar on me to play it, though. not that i know how, anyway. back on aim, back on craigslist with nothing to do on a friday night. there are things out there, so others say, so i say to myself sometimes. how nice it would be to not have the highs and lows all the time. who was it that said he needed that? all the time, otherwise it wasn't worth it? johnny nolan from a tree grows in brooklyn, i think, as recounted by aunt sissy, told to her sister, johnny's wife, francie and neely's mother, katie.

i had an afternoon dream that i was back at watsonville high, but i couldn't let myself go through a door. how pathetic, i thought, leaving a place and then crawling back to it. and then rachel showed up, but she had long, black hair. she told me paul, the after-school director, killed himself. i had no idea who she was talking about, and i don't think she did, either, but she was crying. i woke up to my dad blending fruits to make a smoothie, his daily ritual.

after die! die! my darling, i got the mail. one of my highlights of the day. and any time there's a piece for me, double the pleasure. double the fun. a letter from grant joint union high school district wishing for me to interview for a communications writer position. basically, writing, editing, and publishing a newsletter for the entire school district. lord, how i want it. now, about the third part of the secretary test. four old women, one looking harsher and stricter than the next, "quizzed" me. i, as usual, was unprepared and made some bullshit statements, as i'm sure everyone does at these things, about my previous work history, and how i'm abundantly "qualified" for the on-call secretary position. they recorded it; they took turns asking questions; they took notes; they smiled and nodded a few times; they thanked me for coming; they'll let me know in a week. no wonder nothing ever gets done in this world. i love social justice. i love fighting for the poor. so why do i keep fighting the poor with my own ideals for success, financial stability?

my mom says she wants to take some creative writing courses. and that nila does, too. "is it hard?" she asked me. "no, i said." i asked her about the journal i gave her a few years ago. "yes, i've been writing in it," she told me, then added, "i don't write everyday." teachers always stressed that. i guess it's always been in the back of my mind, this writing everyday business. that's fuel for the gloomy rants.

an airplane flies overhead. there's a house well-decorated for halloween on rosemont drive. crazy country spending money to make something scary. if only there was a way to show everyone how buying things, like useless halloween decorations, is harmful. and yeah, people say, so what? that just means that the economy is doing well. and they just stop there. "well, it's a good thing. a very good thing." if only we could see the calloused hands that stitch together the fabric, the smoke that rises from the ghoulish factories, the deadening of our own collective spirit every time we hand over the visa to the equally unhappy salesperson. and then there's people like me, who know better, but still participate because, as vince vaughn says in that crappy film, into the wild, "you can't get too caught up in that shit."

we're all stuck in mrs. trefoile's attic, awaiting a ghastly, beast-like donald sutherland, too ignorant to understand true evil, to let us out.

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