I seem to have left. 

It’s not ravioli I’m trying to make it’s a Chinese thing.  I got mushrooms, ginger, carrots, onion, cabbage; stuff like that.  And I should probably put in a little chicken.  I don’t know what binds it together.  Anyway you place a dollop of that on the bottom and lay the top square on, and for some reason the edges seal with a little water and some pressure.  I’m going to try steaming them.  I have some plum sauce I can spread on the wrappers.  Yum, doesn’t it sound good?

I’m getting drunk.  In fact hold on, I’m going for another beer.  Fucking Budweiser, that’s what it’s come to.  Some friends came by on Saturday and the guy was so antsy he went and got beer while she and I talked.  Then he went out back and played with the puppy.  That’s what I am tonight, antsy.  Everything was fine until I realized that I couldn’t go to my sister’s tomorrow night for dinner.  I had forgotten the fiction class has started back up.  About that time I remembered I was supposed to be reading this book by Faulkner.  The only thing I’ve read by him I loved but the teacher made it sound like he was difficult.  So I hop in my car thinking it was around 7:00.  I’m half-way there when I remember my car is an hour behind.  The library is closed.  Who knows where a bookstore is over here, not me.  I can’t imagine there is one.  I don’t think anyone over here reads.  I think they watch TV and drink beer.  I’m halfway there.

At least the youngest one is here.  She walked in and saw the beer in my hand and wondered what was going on.  I had some music on and was trying to get in the mood to dance.  Some kind of physical activity is sorely needed.  I paced around my kitchen for a while, round and round the island.  I think I need to get laid.  I went out to the garage and was looking for a possible, forgotten box with hair stuff and jewelry.  I’m missing a bunch of bellydance jewelry and clips and things for long hair.  Really what I want is those rollers I used to use.  I looked pretty damn good today, if I do say so myself.  It didn’t take that long.  If I just had someplace to go every morning I could get a habit going.  Or if I had a fucking boyfriend.  Good thing I’ve given up on that.  I haven’t seen any possible candidates since I moved here.  Actually there was a black guy, looked like a Portland State professor, who was getting in his car downtown.  Nice suit, glasses, genteel, comfortable, right age.  I stared, he smiled.  I didn’t mean to stare, he just was such a surprise.  Then there was a guy at lunch with Teresa.  Except he was too old.  He had pretty cool white hair, though.  It was punked out and he was elegant.  Too much attitude, though.  God, I hate being eccentric and old.  The field narrows so.

The rain has finally gotten to me.  You can’t live in Portland without enduring this month-long river of rain in April.  It’s harder this year with that tease-of-a-month we had in March.  I just want to be someplace else, someplace warm.  I want to be somone else, someone thin.  And today, on my way to the hospital, I actually fantasized about being published.  I’m drunk so I can put that out there.  It’s just that I read so much about intention and praying and working towards your goals and at some point you have to step up and say you want it; that you’re going to go for it.  I imagined myself being interviewed on TV.  I know this is embarrassing for you but I don’t give a shit.  It’s my blog and I can be as embarrassing as I want. 

I wonder if the reason I’m getting drunk is because I did a stupid thing today and subconsciously I’m freaking out about it.  Remember that incident with my tribal teacher and the reviews I wrote?  And it’s funny because I was just thinking about ego last night because of something Brenda wrote on Denmark guy’s blog.  I even saved it somewhere to think about.  Anyway, just when I thought I was getting a handle on my ego I go and open my big mouth.  I just erased a bunch of ego-ridden stuff.  Suffice-it-to-say I blew my under-cover approach to the second book.  Maybe she’ll keep her mouth shut. 

Have you noticed all the hyphenated words I seem to want to use lately?  What’s up with that.  I’m rambling.  Enough.

Go to Read:  Your Subscriptions and click on Protected.  Geez, I’m starting to sound desperate.  And thank you Onigiriman.  This gives me an idea of where people are coming from, what their understanding and impression of bellydance is.  Now I know I need to write a chapter explaining the art form.  But what I am most concerned about is the tone.  As a narrator I don’t want to color it.  And the post I have begun and not posted yet is sounding venomous.  I can post it here but I could never let another dancer read it.  Or could I?  As I let my hair down I see that I have some anger and nothing spoils a piece faster than a negative spin, unless it’s something like la_chatte_gitane‘s letter to the cable company.  Maybe what I said about negativity isn’t true, but I want to come from a positive place.

People!  I woke up and had no comments.  Count ‘em:  0.  Look, if you don’t like it tell me.  If it seems like I shouldn’t be exposing — If you think that I am stepping over some moral boundries, say so.  Haven’t I always been straight-up with you?  I need to know what your reaction is.  I mean I figure the writing is okay, it’s the subject matter that has me worried.  And the slant.  I’m worried about how I sound because you know I’m — I’m still struggling with my departure from that world and maybe I — As a narrator I worry about imposing myself.  Please. 

I decided to do the following as a protected post.  I am leaving out personal stuff so I hope it doesn’t sound too dry.  And I’m writing this against my better judgment.  It doesn’t feel like it’s time but I’m afraid to wait. 

brendaclews  wrote something today which I don’t understand.  I didn’t understand when she wrote it, and I don’t understand why I am not writing about Seattle; why I’m wanting to tuck the memories away.  I’m afraid something will be lost in the wait.

I have never been one for cameras.  And neither was my husband so our children’s growth, rather than being videotaped, was captured, sporadically, at births, birthday parties, and first days of school.  Once they were old enough for their own cameras they took lots of pictures.  Over the years I have accumulated albums-full, all over at Henry’s.  I took only the  pictures I’d framed.

I find my most precious memories come to me for no reason.  In an instant, in a flash, I am transported to watching the sun rise, on LSD.  I’ll suddenly remember the smell of those sweet peas they grew up the side of their restaurant down by the bay in Wheeler.   I can smell the incense as I recall sitting in my Sunday best, a stranger in a church, weeping over the beauty of the stained-glass windows and choir.  In Seattle, I was taken back to the night Marcie and I, with some of her friends, jumped in a cab and went racing through the city.  My head thrust out the window, hair flying on a hot New York night; it was freedom.  We have lots of pictures of that trip, but the thrill of the ride was my most precious memory.

I have done some crazy things over the years but the older I get the gladder I am.  Because it’s those memories that make writing easier.  And it will be those memories that make my golden years a blessing.  There are so many things to learn and do and I want to cram them all in.  But suddenly, writing about them –It feels like it might take the magic away.

My fiction class is in 40 minutes but I just sat down to read your comments.  janedivided talked about having to process and that’s what’s going on.  Something must have happened in Seattle that I don’t understand the repurcutions of because I’m walking around in a daze.  I can’t focus.  I barely got all my tax stuff done in time and was having to write verbatum what the accountant said as she rattled off all the shit I had to fax, in addition to the workbook I completed.  Plus my friend Anthony took me to dinner last night and we came back and sat in front of the fire, talking like old times.  I can tell his girlfriend has pretty much dumped him, the way he’s being overly friendly.  He’s driving back up tomorrow and I’m taking him to his MRI because in order to do it he has to take two valium.  So I’m driving.  He’s claustrophobic is the problem.  If anyone has any mind-altering tricks to deal with that, let me know.

I should scoot.  I just wanted to say, “hi,” and that everything is…..pending.  Like something’s up but I’m not sure what.