It doesn't feel like almost two o'clock, although I never know what time my body thinks it is. If that weren't confusing enough, there's going to be another almost two o'clock before the night is through.
I stayed up all night last night, since at 6:30 in the morning I'd just finished reading Measure for Measure and thought it would probably be more prudent to go downstairs and fix myself some coffee than to go to sleep then and there and wake up around dinner-time. MG was on the sofa, sleeping like a puppy -- we had rented some John Leguizamo monologues and The Heidi Chronicles and of course I cried like the Trevi fountain. MG gave me the five dollar bill he found on the street.
I wandered around dazed all morning, did most of the crossword before the language department in my brain declared an emergency strike for napping rights. At some point I went for a walk on Boston Common with CC, and we spoke about things of high import and many syllables. He and I ended up at Trident Books, looking with horror and fascination at a self-help book which appeared to tell women that it was their place to give in to their husbands.
I came home, put on some Handel, drew myself a pint, and passed out before I reached the half-way mark. Woke up next to my tepid beer, around eleven, watched unfulfilling television, and then logged on. What a terribly interesting life I lead [yawn]. What worries me is that I never used to be this squidgy and cowlike. Don't get me wrong -- I could go weeks without doing anything practical, but I usually turned out a few paintings or a short poem or at least mulled over some interesting point of philosophy very late at night with some gorgeous friend whose bones I had lever jump.
If college was the Age of Gods, the first season of the Queer World [translation: the first year I lived in this house -- it was just like the Real World, except none of us was real and there was one token straight person] was the Age of Heroes, and now I'm in an Age of Men. In fact, it's raining the Age of Men, and I have got myself absolutlely soaking wet in it. I like men -- as if there were any danger of you all forgetting this fact -- but it seems like such a let-down when the costumes were so pretty in the first act.
I shrug it off: some contented, confident little voice in the back of my head -- such creatures do exist, like sylphs in the bosky shadows of my brain, they are diaphanous and visit me when I am sick at heart -- pats my hand and whispers that these desperate years are going to be the making of me. I certainly hope so. I've written it in my calendar. These years will turn into my lost years, and how interesting they'll seem when I'm older... Spenser's martial verse is inspiring me to have a little more spine. I have started collecting and distributing more job applications. I will not quake pusillanimously when I see the words "layoffs", "war", "unemployment", or "successful twentysomething". Nay. I shall be tough. I shall be virile. I shall fight for my right to party.
Still reading FQ (Only three books and a Canto on Mutabilitie to go!). But thinking about P�ter N�das's Book of Memories.
Listening to the refrigerator hum, thinking about the ridiculous march from the finale of Beethoven's 9th symphony.
I have been reading up on the history of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and craving Linzertorte.