I called a friend today — he's funnier than me, often in this sort of dark way, but he's also wise and his thoughts feel well-measured. Maybe but is the wrong operator, because maybe "darkly funny" is something you only get to be if you're a little bit wise and good at measuring out your words. Whatever the case, I find him gentle and tactful when he needs to be. He asks good questions, which is the most important thing in writers and photographers of any kind, of which he is both. So I asked him to write with me, to build out this idea I have for something important that I want to make. He said he'd give it some thought. I hope he says yes. This is the kind of idea I haven't been able to shake for years, but it needs the right team.
I went on a date the other night. I felt almost nothing about it — smart guy, great taste in sweater, good cologne, nice face, good mustache geometry, pleasant conversation. He explained what it would require, technically speaking, to gene drive mosquitoes out of existence, and why malaria vaccines are a better alternative. (I had asked.) But I wasn't really in it. The whole date felt like a task. I had this thought at one point that he pursued a lot of the interests that I thought were cool on paper in a sort of boring way. He asked me if I wanted someone to walk me home, and I said no.
Instead, I took myself to the bookstore, which was open late. While I was there, I shamefully purchased Rosie Kellet's In For Dinner on my phone while standing in the cookbook corner; it was readily available for half the price. I needed to cut corners somewhere.
I walked out with two things: A Poetry Handbook, Mary Oliver and the making of a story, Alice LaPlante — I've been in the mood for instruction lately. I made my way home, tiptoeing over ice, happy to be returning to my empty apartment, happy to make tea and think private thoughts to myself.
I fell asleep reading Oliver, but dragged both her and LaPlante to a teahouse the following afternoon, where I waded deep into the first chapter of the making of a story, where LaPlante proposes a few simple exercises. The first one is a finish-the-thought: “I don't know why I remember…” I was surprised by how immediately the image came to me:
I don't know why I remember driving through downtown with ▬ when I first moved back to LA after that summer I spent living above the garage. Specifically, I remember reaching across the gap between the front seats and thumbing through the hair by his ears.
After a while he said, "You know, you don't have to keep doing that," which I understand now to mean please stop. And I said, "No, it's okay," which I now understand to mean I'm doing this for me, not for you. I was still in disbelief that he was real.
I stayed home sick from work today and will probably do the same tomorrow, but I dragged myself to the grocery store because I needed some very important things: biscuit dough, green onions, silken tofu, mushrooms, frozen strawberries. When I’m sick I want to eat everything, like my body is burning calories to heal itself.
Oh, also: I deleted Hinge.
