Brand new life.

So, considering that I've moved houses and now live in Buckhead again and that I'm not really doing improv anymore and everything (including my waistline) seems to be reverting back to a quieter time, I figured that I should start blogging again - not because I want to embrace a quieter time but because I want to remind myself that I can do more than just stay quiet and resigned to it.

So even though my schedule now requires me to work on Saturday nights until god-awful hours that don't really allow me much free time to socialize, I am not failing. I am not gaining weight. Things are not going to revert back to the way I was. Life is cumulative. You are always changing. You can't go completely home again once you've learned some new way to behave, found some new people to see, figured out how to drink lots of whiskey that you didn't have the liver for before, etc.

This blog used to even be popular. I'm taking it on faith now that no one is going to read this, though, so that should provide me with a bit more freedom and leeway in my writing, at least until I think I've produced something good enough for other people to see.

And that probably won't happen until I get a new computer. My laptop at home has no memory on it anymore, so that limits the vlogging, the at-home Facebooking, the porn watching, the distractions.

Removing some of those things might even make me creative again. And that's where I most enjoy myself.

Distracted.

Dear Vic,

I can't manage to write you a letter this week - despite what feels like weeks of trying - because my mind is too scattered. Thus, I'm unable to focus on a singular, interesting topic that could provide the drive behind the narrative focus of a letter. Home's eh. Stephen's good. There have been some cool movies, some broken hearts, some great nights out, some good dates and one bad hip.

More later.

RM

New photos of me.

The stolen Emily Giffin book story.

In recovery.

Weight Watchers. Health crisis. And now ...

This is what I look like nowadays.

Wobble.

My friend Wes, whom I recently met for lunch, told the story of our lunch and the problem I was having during the lunch in his latest podcast. It was very complimentary. He's a very good guy, and I've been lucky to have him as a friend for several years now.

I really appreciate all of the nice things you said, Wes.

MAD MEN me.

For the third season premiere of MAD MEN, I went to a friend's house to watch it. And I dressed circa 1963 for the occasion.

This Zine Will Change Your Life.

Thank you, Ben Tanzer, for publishing one of my pieces on your web-based zine.

Tree Creature.

The following was transcribed from a handwritten note I wrote yesterday:

8/7/09

Vic,

I’m starting this letter in the dark, for I’m at a concert, an experimental, unclassifiable music concert at a gallery called Eyedrum. Someone just turned on a blue light, grabbed an electric guitar and is playing a growing, bouncing, changing grand wave of noise into the warm, stuffy air of the room around us. When I walked in, I smelled pot, but the friend I came to see put a stick of incense in his mouth and lit it, so that’s the soothing, beautiful smell that’s hanging in the air.

I keep stopping my sentences, closing my eyes. The vibrations of the music hit my feet and make them better. The sound hits my ears, challenges them but promises not to break them. I like where I am right now. There is beauty, safety and feeling in where I am. Overwhelming feeling. There is quiet in the crowd, a beauty in the shared experience.

I wish you could feel this.

There are paper lanterns, hanging red from the ceiling.

I’m sitting next to a guy named Wade, one of those guys whose relaxed, easy friendship and assurance I wish I could carry with me. He doesn’t make me nervous.

I’d not expected to be this happy tonight. I’m going to close my eyes and permit myself to feel it again.

I am in this room of people, alone with the effects of the sound as it soars. It contains layers, it is wide enough to find all of your emotions in it.

This is not what I was expecting.


My friend Nathan’s band is performing now. The safety of church organs devolved into a crash. I felt like I’m falling, now there’s something intimidating and mechanic about the noise, yet there’s joy in a fanfare, mixed with the sound of voices uplifted in joy, a crash of cymbals. The voice is Nathan’s. He’s on a microphone, chanting, but I didn’t notice at first that it was him. He sounded like a chorus of tribal voices, a beauty of simple melody played on piano to bring you home, the tapping of a drumstick on wood. There’s art in the building layers of sound, and my pen doesn’t travel fast enough to mark all the details in this, what I’m discovering and feeling. The writing of this makes me comforted, as though there’s something of this experience that I can take away, share and remember.

There is something beautiful here, something beautiful in someone who would choose to perform this, share it, explore it, how sound can make you feel, associate, remember.

Wow, Nathan just started playing the happiest variation, like the score of a scene of a child walking through a too-bright summer day down a suburban sidewalk, a cul-de-sac of green lawns and sprinklers, the promise of a new house and friendly neighbors, a life the child expected to have and enjoy.

Behind it, a grinding has started, a threat that such promise is fragile, calm can be taken away. But the happiness, only changing a little, remains.

This place is making me feel good. Coming here was a very good idea.

I like Nathan’s group better than the first, there’s more joy in it, more familiar places to visit. It’s still searchable, layered sound with meaning. But it’s also a song. I felt so vulnerable before. This second band is giving me structure, comfort, a place to feel safe and recognize as home.

I feel you’re here with me.

I’m in a room of pervasive good feeling, and I can’t rightly explain it.

It reminds me of who I can be, it reminds me of the Rothko Room at the Tate Gallery in London. When I remember feeling moved, I remember the low light, that room, the meditation and calm I felt with those rectangles.

Benj

PUBLIC ENEMIES made me want to wear suits.

33.

Ballgame.

Quick video about books.

The Push-Up Pro.

Closet case.

I don't know why I'm showing the blog so much love today. OK, maybe it's because I've barely shown it any written love in a while and didn't want those of you who care enough to come here to think that I'd stopped, you know, writing. I have not given up on the whole writing thing, even though I've become a vlogger, even though newspapers I used to read are dying slow deaths all around, even though I have a boyfriend and such a phenomenon is usually accompanied by me going blog silent.

The boyfriend and I have been dating for five months now, and I think we're in a good place. The roommate situation - warts and all - is going mostly well. I want to go back to improv, and I've made that desire known - or, at least, I think I have - to the people who can make those kinds of calls.

I thought about HOW TO WIN FRIENDS again, picking up and finishing that project. I thought about starting different projects.

For a variety of reasons, I've started reading and writing (and occasionally napping) behind the closed door of my large bathroom closet every night. The close, confined space, the time to be alone with my thoughts with a specific focus and specific goal and the throw pillow I rest my head on while I'm in there have made for a nice, writing-with-the-door-closed sort of creative space. I like it a lot.

It reminds me of when I was a kid and used to find comfort by hiding under beds or reading in closets.

My bathroom closet helps me to feel more like myself. So every night, I take a novel, a suede journal that snaps shut and a copy of WRITING DOWN THE BONES in there, and I have fun with some or all of those things until I get tired. And Stephen, if he's in the bedroom, can surf on the Internet or watch TV. (Some guys wouldn't be OK with a boyfriend who spends time in the closet - a literal closet, which is just a sign that I'm lucky to have found the person that I've found.)

Who knows what might come of the closet time, whether I'll ever write something significant or just make a dent in all the books I own but have never read?

It just feels important to have the time, the space and someone who cares enough not to mock you on the other side of the door.

I'm in the middle of this book and love it.

I've recommended books some of you have liked before, so take this recommendation into consideration. Part of me just wants to have someone to talk about it with when I'm done.

Anyway, Elizabeth Strout's OLIVE KITTERIDGE won the Pulitzer for fiction this year, and it was in paperback already, so I figured I would just pick it up and read it eventually. But it's a novel written as a collection of stories about one gruff, difficult retired schoolteacher named Olive Kitteridge and her whole entire town. Sometimes she's a major character in the stories, sometimes she's on the periphery. Every time, though, she makes an impact on the larger scope. Each story has been individually satisfying, which means that I've gotten the sense of closure and relief at having finished something profound and beautiful every time I pick it up, and I'm only 100 pages in. It's really, really good.

What I want.

I want one of these Kindle devices. I really, really want one. I've been trying to save up money for months in order to get one, and I've been talking and talking and talking about getting one.



Has anyone who reads this blog gotten a Kindle, seen a Kindle, used a Kindle? I want some feedback on them.

The Tate Modern shirt.

Before and after.