Dear everyone,
Hello to the hundreds and hundreds of you that came to read about Lenin! If I had known there would be so many of you, I'd have spiced up the encounter a little bit. Added some space aliens or something. Maybe a song-and-dance number. (Thanks to Michael for the mention.)
I should be marveling over the fact that it's almost July already, but I'm still looking for April. Did we have an April? Or a May? I'm not sure that I'm getting my full year's worth of year.
I spent most of the morning stomping around the office demanding that summer show itself, already. I didn't want to be wearing a swingy summer skirt for nothing. I had on my three-inch tan Unlisteds, which are consummate stomping shoes, and sure enough the sun was out by the time I left work. If there was a better way to have spent the evening than by reading Proust on my porch in the sun while eating plums, I don't know it. And now the apartment smells like popcorn from the brown rice I'm cooking and I'm listening to Math & Physics Club and things are Just. Perfect.
Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.
I received a slightly grumpy email yesterday about my use of the word "you." Someone thinks I don't explain myself enough--and that's sort of the point. I am often talking to you and about you. Honestly, often enough I don't even know who I'm talking to. So there's that.
I feel as though I'm saying all the right things at all the wrong times, like I'm not handing you the puzzle pieces that you need, and that soon you'll be forced to get out your scissors and make these wrong pieces fit. I'm sick-to-death of myself. And while I've gotten ahold of the feeling that I'm disappearing, that I'm no longer filling out my own skin, I cannot stop the notion that my toes and my head are operating on different bad ideas.
Here's a mild confession for you: I'm thinking of giving myself a birthday party this year, but I'm afraid no one would come. It has happened before.
I hope that you are all going to come and see our photo show next Thursday. This is, somewhat pathetically, a huge act of bravery for me. While I may still not find any merit in the things that I make--making stuff, from words or paint or whatever, has always been a tortuous thing for me--I am for the first time admitting to folks that I might make them. I am very afraid of you.
I am afraid of everything, but I'm doing my best to stop.
love,
me
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