lycanthropia

It’s 7 am, I’ve been up since 4 with a sore tummy, I’ve had cream of wheat with butter and maple syrup and cream and Zantac, I’ve made yet another silly polyvore collage, there are only 8 episodes of BSG left, today I am going to make an enormous pan of green chile chicken enchiladas and a pumpkin pie, I keep trying to write an emergency Xmas-day blogpost for the journal and failing (something about colors, colors in literature, colors in a writer’s brain), I am still obsessed with utterly unaffordable $80 skinny jeans dyed teal and violet, also this pair of purple bamboo pajamas, but I got turned down for student loans because I am not making Sufficient Academic Progress so I have to appeal that by January 3 but I don’t really want to do anything but loaf on the neighbor’s sofa and color with crayons, my beloveds in NYC sent the magical almond roca that they make every year, all buttery from its copper pan with the darkest thin chocolate coating and toasted almonds, it was 70ª yesterday and we walked in the arboretum and had sandwiches and tangerines and saw turtles (but no alligators), it turns out you can sort of use tangerine peels as a wet-wipe, there is a challenging intensity and a sense of urgent slippage and necessity with us right now, I cannot explain that yet, I have had this song engraved in my brain for a solid week now, whenever I wake up the needle hits the groove and it fires up again, mostly I think I only really like the first thirty seconds of a capella and more than anything the look on Emma Thompson’s and Alan Rickman’s faces at 0:25, which is that consternation and longing and strickenness when you weren’t at all expecting to have occasion to remember, as if doused with icewater: I was so young once, I felt in that way, I am still that person, I still have wild and deep feelings, how did this happen to me, how did I dry up and blow to this arid place, is there any chance that if I let these notes, isolate, act as a solvent on my heart, that I can find my way out again