A few weeks ago, "my" horoscope from:
(not that I take stock in such things; I just find them highly entertaining and sometimes relevant, but can't everything sometimes be relevant?) said that I should come up with my own new nickname, before someone else did it for me. There was an implied threat in there, somewhere.
I'm trying to figure out what it could be.
The nickname. And the threat.
Yesterday, I went to Georgetown and got myself blonde hair. Not entirely on purpose. I drove for hours, and ate a hamburger, and got a headache.
There was an older woman, bored, with heavy heavy black eyeshadow, and skinny pants, and a dog, a dog in a pink sweater, for pete's sake, and she said, I'm forty. Shouldn't I do what I want now?
One of my students said that I had such a love for life. I wonder if she sees me watching TV, and not writing, and eating cereal for dinner again. I wonder if it's just the energy that makes her think that, how you have to try to lift up the room otherwise we'll never get off the ground. Or maybe it's the exercises (write about what scares you! write a poem in one sentence!). Or the crazy pants.
I think I am tired of the poetry business. The arguments. The analyzing.
I thought about that now.
Tonight I will work out (or not). I will cook steak and thin green asparagus with slivers of Gruyere cheese. And take a bath with sesame-scented suds. And read Smashed: The Story of a Drunken Girlhood, though it, too, gives me a headache. And the newspaper. And watch a Gilmore Girls repeat. And organize my papers, putting piles into piles. Maybe go the coffeehouse and sit by the window and write a chapter and look sad, though I am not, sad at the black wet street.
I think I know what the nickname is. The threat? I think I know that too.