proustbot: (Mendou Shutaro)
It happened months ago, but an exchange I keep thinking about:

ME: "Jesus, I think I corrected these errors two or three drafts ago."

CHARLIE: "Oh, man, he just keeps unweaving his tapestry each night! These revisions need never end!"

ME: "..."
proustbot: (young and drinking in the park)

I was telling Bear about seeing Richard III and then looking up my journal entries from my freshman-year Shakespeare class, and discovering that I had loved Richard III, that I had written, "Richard III is very good, and will become my new favorite Shakespeare play, which was previously Twelfth Night."

And Bear, laughing until he sobbed at this Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man, pressed his hands against his chest and cried, "Oh! Oh, my heart!"


A week ago, we all went to the bar, and I ended up sitting next to him, and since we were all cheek-to-jowl in that booth, he had his elbows up on the table to avoid digging into me.

He's slender and delicate, and his hands are long and slim -- and absolutely covered in hair, dark and thick and deep and spiraling up the back of his wrist past his knuckle, and his hands were clasped loosely before him in the manner of a very elegant monkey.


Yesterday, as I frantically tried to finish this god damn paper and get it sent out, he went off to a campus screening of Persepolis. When he came back, he brought me a slice of the pizza that had been given out after the movie.

"It has, um, pineapple?"

"Oh," I said, tearing into it, because I hadn't eaten all day. "It's the most delicious thing I've ever had."

He cocked his head to the side and looked at me uneasily. "Is that...sarcasm?"

"No, I mean it," I said, and I felt a pang that he already knows me well enough to reflexively doubt everything I say. "Did you like the movie?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "It was beautiful. I cried at the end." He shrugged. "I am a crier, you know? I cry at everything. Movies, the evening news, pfffh, everything."

And I felt like squeezing my chest and going, Oh! Oh, my heart!
proustbot: (triumph)

I went to see Richard III with Betty and Veronica last night. At the beginning of the intermission, Veronica went to the restroom and Betty went to enter her name in the raffle drawing for a bottle of wine.

"Do you want to come?" she asked.

"Nah," I said. "Feel free to enter my name if you want."

Five minutes later, they both came back to their seats.

"I entered our three names in the raffle drawing," Betty told Veronica.

Veronica went still. "What? But...I just entered my own name in the raffle drawing."

Betty shrugged. "Oh, okay, sorry."

"That means that my name was entered twice..."


Veronica stared at her. He was as angry as I've ever seen him. "Why did you do that? Why did you enter my name? Now that means... It won't be fair..."

"Shhh," she said. "Okay. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does--" he started to say, and then the stage manager took the stage to make the raffle drawing.

"And the bottle of wine goes to...Veronica?"

Betty and I grinned feverishly as Veronica stiffened and straightened and -- finally, with every muscle in his jaw clenched -- stood up to accept the bottle of wine. It was clearly one of the worst moments of his life.

(I told this story at the bar tonight to Bear, and Veronica stared flatly ahead and said that, in order to make their redress to the universe, he and Betty would be skipping the raffle for their next play. "Maybe even our next two plays," he added.)


At the bar tonight, Veronica and I argued about the definition of a "procedural," and an hour later, when we were leaving (and after I ran back into the bar to find my scarf), I found him waiting for me on the sidewalk with an air of deep melancholy.

"I was totally wrong about that procedural thing," he said immediately. "And then, when you corrected me, I just brought up a totally different genre and pretended like that false evidence supported my argument."

"Um," I said, because I was a little bit drunk and had already forgotten about this discussion. "...okay?"

"I was very wrong," he repeated, and it was clear that this rhetorical sin had been eating away at his puritan soul for an hour.

"Nah, it's cool," I said, a little sleepily, and then I told him about some dumb argument that Lockwood and I had, in order to reassure him that I have doubled down on errorneous arguments in the past as well, and he suddenly smiled in wide, helpless relief.


I stumbled back to the workroom and, through the miracle of social networks, started watching the live feed of the university symphony performance featuring Ariel. I scanned the musicians looking for him, and when I finally found him, I felt the same base glee as a child successfully locating the striped scarf in Where's Waldo. He had one elbow resting along the rounded top of the bass drum, and the fingers of his hand wiggled in nervous energy as he waited for his cue, and I felt such a burst of warm, happy recognition at seeing someone I knew do something so characteristic of themselves.


It has been a good 24 hours, is what I'm saying, I guess.
proustbot: (clint eastwood)
Yesterday I did 14 pomodoros: I did laundry, I did morning pages, I read half a dozen books, and I wrote ~600 words.

Current Tally: $30

Yesterday, I saw Ariel in the office, and he said that he had ditched the birthday party as well. And also everyone he knew had also ditched.

We made identical faces of horror at one another. "Did...anyone go?"

Yesterday, I muzzily made my way through the first two episodes of Riverdale. I enjoy depictions of creepy suburbia -- Twin Peaks, Life is Strange, Brick -- so I am along for that ride, but I'd prefer it if Betty/Archie/Veronica weren't a foregone conclusion. It would be a lot more fun if I could pretend that they were just going to stay tight but date beyond their friend-group. (And obviously that's not going to happen.) I am also amused at the Lolita glasses that wardrobe gave Ms. Grundy; I'm assuming that she'll tie back into the murder plot through some kinky affair that she was conducting with Jason Blossom. (I'm assuming, as well, that making the Blossom twins red-heads will yield some sort of dramatic pay-off in regards to red-headed Archie.)

This morning I'm going to stay home and keep banging out this chapter. This afternoon I'll go into the office and sit through a pointless-but-karmically-mandated event.
proustbot: (young and drinking in the park)
This morning is the morning that I am waking up in sleepy leisure in my childhood bed, rather than staggering awake in the dark and throwing all my shit in my backpack and running for the airport.

(That joy awaits next week.)

Let's do the year in review quiz, kids.

2016: Everyone bought champagne for mimosas, and no one brought orange juice, and there's a metaphor in there somewhere. )


proustbot: (Default)

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