My passport came back today with a Chinese Visa pasted inside--exactly a week after it arrived in San Francisco. This means that as long as nothing goes too wrong I'll be in China in August. China, says e e cummings, is where a poet is a painter.
I've been in that old samantha funk the last few days, spending evenings lying on the floor singing songs to the ceiling. It's as though I got out of bed two minutes too early or too late yesterday, and I haven't been able to get back on time since. I am grumpy, and not really relishing spending the evening with a fellow who, after all these weeks, has yet to even ask my last name. But I get myself into these situations and it's no one's fault but my own that I can't work up the energy to get out of them. I am listless and bored with thinking all of the things I've already thought.
The problem is that I miss all of the people I've just seen, and what's worse is that I miss the one I'm not supposed to be thinking about. I'm back to being infected by thoughts I thought I'd cured myself of years ago.
Tomorrow night will be full of nice girls and wine and crafts, and I promise that by the weekend I'll try to be back to jumping in puddles and renaming my toes.
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