Sunday, February 10, 2008

In the 4th grade, I campaigned for president of the United States on a platform that consisted almost entirely of my promise to "basicly [sic] be very helpful and encouraging" and to increase the number of school days so that we could catch up to the Chinese. Shockingly, I lost. I think my classmates voted the kid who promised free pizza in the cafeteria into office.

Last night I woke to someone scrabbling at my front door. Drunk neighbor or overly friendly raccoon, I can't say for sure, but I stumbled to the door half-asleep and piled a bunch of things in front of it. Like the burglar alarm made of tin cans that I'd set up every night by my window and bedroom door during the years where I spent too much time reading R. L. Stein books.

I've had a hard time working up the enthusiasm to do much lately beyond taking very long walks or sitting--in bars and on my couch, mostly. My living room is covered with a scrim of movies and half-read Italy travel books and science magazines, and I am ignoring the pile of pink vintage-lampshade-inspired fabric that is sitting by my sewing machine waiting to be made into a dress. All of my metaphorical windows are covered in tin foil.

Earlier I was standing in my bedroom measuring myself in order to make pattern adjustments, noting the distance between neck and shoulder or belly button and thigh. I've been thinking lately about the day that art met math and everyone finally figured out how to make the third dimension one that you could see rather than just one you could experience. I've been wondering just how many levels are left to go.

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