29

Today I laid in bed until 8:40 after staying up late rearranging the apartment, desperate for it to become something new for my morning self. On the way out of town I ordered a large latte whole milk to go, which was great but I do wish it had been the more attractive, worse barista. In the car I listened to Wuthering Heights and acquiesced to the deeply slow pace of a black car ahead of me, attending instead (so maturely) to the sight of the the burning red of the trees on the mountains and the heat of the sun.

Once at work I enjoyed equally the attention of everyone wishing me happy birthday and the surprise joy of having hastily chosen an outfit which only reveals its perfection halfway through the day. Three back to back meetings took me to almost 3:00, and then I reviewed some notes to prepare for tomorrow (even though I am of course actually working, I often feel like I am playing at working, Oh yes, here are those numbers you asked for, etc.) and left. This time I listened to Jung's Red Book. Once my head is full of my own day it's hard to re-enter a literary story. I don't know how I developed this habit, but I read a chapter of the physical book (the non-fiction book) and then listen to the same exact portion of the text the next day. I can almost reconstruct each sentence one or two words ahead of the audio, or imagine its placement on its physical page as if in doing this double-read I'm triangulating its exact location, tracing its call. I suppose it's halfway towards memorization.

On the way home I spotted an ottoman on the side of the road and I turned off, drove back a quarter of a mile, and pulled over. It wasn't good, I knew it wouldn't be, the pea-colored upholstery was thin and ratty and it didn't match my style scheme which is Japanese tea room slash painting studio. When I got back on the road two cars had collided at the place where I had turned around a moment ago. One car, the smaller one, had gently skidded and sat calmly off-road like a Hot Wheels with a dent in the bumper. The other was inexplicably totaled and completely upside-down and there was glass and debris everywhere. As I passed two men had just rushed to the driver's side window, now crushed to about a square foot, and were triaging the invisible driver. A large woman in a sweatshirt was yelling into a phone with no expression. My mouth was open and my arms were numb and I drove in shock until I was far enough away that I forgot about it.

I stopped at the upscale food store with the flirtatious fromagier and I bought two bulbous organic tomatoes, a disappointing loaf of sourdough, one unripe banana, two small lemons, one alcoholic cider, frozen dumplings, and salted cookies. In an attempt to completely clear out my cupboard I've been creatively using all of the odd ingredients hoarded there. Tonight it is sardine tomato toast, to use a large quantity of sardines.

At home I practiced yoga in the studio room. I am grateful when I get to practice yoga or meditate when I am completely, as my teacher says, 'dry'-- meaning I haven't consumed food or beverages in the past few hours. The practice is much more focused and I feel light and strong. In this case I had not yet eaten at all and it was ideal; I could feel each tight pocket in each of my legs and the back of my ribs and I spent time moving around until I had cornered and eliminated them all. My cycle was so heavy that I had given up on emptying my cup and was just bleeding through my pants. Every time I came down from downward dog a distinct weight sloshed into the well of my underwear and eventually ran freely down my leg.

I watched the first scene of When Harry Met Sally which is so much my favorite that it almost constitutes the entire film anyway and then Neil called on FaceTime and we talked about David Lynch mostly, mixing up Inland Empire and Mulholland Drive and the influence of TM in his directing. After this the tone of the Ephron film was oppressively well-intentioned so I watched "Traces to Nowhere," the second episode of "Twin Peaks" in which Leo abuses Shelley with a bar of soap in a sock while I toasted two slices of bread in the oven. I finely grated garlic to spread on it with butter, then fit on thin irregularly shaped slices of tomato, sardines, capers, and lemon juice and salt and pepper. I wished I had gotten pickled onions. The first bite was sort of nauseating and I wondered if I had made a mistake but then the second bite was delicious and I ate them all. 

Mom called and we talked for a little over an hour about all the usual things. I asked her what she's excited about besides holidays, which she is intent on drolly and tediously listing out every time we speak as if I've forgotten that Christmas comes after Thanksgiving, and we took a relieving new detour.

We discussed the year 1995, my birth year, and how I'm just on the cusp of two generations, two modes of reality, two technological orientations. Being from two times and many places I often feel home-less in a way; no real home town and no real hope of finding a place that will become it, no identity as I've long been strongly averse to the idea of searching for one. I don't imagine I will ever 'locate' my 'place,' but spend my life circling environments that feel more and more like they might be it. Being untethered used to make me feel aimless but now it makes me feel unencumbered in the way other people seem to be hampered by made-up responsibilities foisted on them by actors unfamiliar to me and therefore irrelevant. A father? That doesn't apply to me. I don't have anyone to report to, and if there is grief within me about this situational contextlessness I haven't found it yet.

I told her my dream is to one day live completely without affect or pretension, to be myself essentially in every aspect of my life, free to choose to stay or go in every situation without recourse. I usually update her on my life plan since it changes often week to week, but recently I've settled on one vision and I think it's the one, so like a promising new lover I chose not to disclose it in casual conversation. I told her I've decided not to buy an Apple Watch after all, not for any particular reason (although there are many deterrents, not the least of which is the fact that I would never do anything to degrade the radial intensity of my heart meridian) but because of my shopping rule: if you can leave without it, do.

Like most days I have not arrived until the sun is down so now in the darkness and quiet of my apartment, writing within the mental levity of a perfect alcohol buzz, I feel my birthday for the first time. The cat is settling down now at almost midnight. I will read ten or so pages of a book, get high, and sleep.