Quarterly

March 29

9:30 a.m.

Y'all.

It's the end of March here already, practically. A quarter of the year-- whoosh, gone! How did this happen? It seems like it went really quickly... but then I look back, and I guess a lot has happened. I've written stuff. Meg has visited. I got tight with Timprov and Marissa.

Still, though. Time seems to be moving at a precipitous rate. It's going to be May before I know it, and then mad traveling and extended poverty will begin.

*

I was going to write an entry last night-- which would have been basically identical to this one-- but I didn't. Instead, I wrote a super long e-mail to someone I met a couple of weeks ago, a new friend. Moving to this coast has been so good for me in that respect. I had a big group of friends in Boone, people I could party with, and I miss them... but the friends I've made out here have been different, people I can open up to. I'm not ready to leave this place (even with the high cost of housing and the recent electricity rate-hikes, sigh). I've never felt so hooked-in to the writing world (except for my six weeks at Clarion). I've never had so many good bookstores, and restaurants, and coffee shops nearby. I've never been so close to a big city, with all the attendant enticements. I like this place.

One of the possible outcomes in the dice-roll that is my future is Meg moving out here to work for a while. More and more, I hope that's what happens. Because the only thing that's been lacking in my wonderful life out here is Meg. I want to take her to cheap night at the Boardwalk. I want to sit at Pergolesi on Sundays and eat bagels with her. I want to walk along Westcliff, holding her hand, and watch the sailboats. I want to share this place with her, without a little clock in the back of my head ticking down the hours until her flight leaves to take her away.

And there's other stuff, too. I still haven't been to visit Jenn in L.A.-- I want to do that. I like being able to visit Karen and Pär and Tot. I like my proximity to Marissa and Timprov. I love the beaches, the main streets, the hills.

I don't think I'll live here forever; there are other places me and Meg want to explore.

But I want to live here for a while more.

*

Last night I wrote a good poem called "For the Woman Who Makes Me Want to Learn the Names of All the Flowers." It's a mainstream poem (which means I won't make any money on it, heh), and it's rather long. I should get back in the habit of submitting to literary journals. I should send "Flowers" and "Holly Grove" and maybe "Mask" to the Paris Review, and the Kenyon Review...

*

Last night for dinner I made a heap of fried rice. It was yummy. I may make the same thing tonight, with some stir-fried chicken. Mmm.

I'm trying to be more fiscally responsible, in preparation for PovertyFest 2001, which begins in May, when my job ends and the traveling begins. That means:

  • No mocha chais

  • No scrambagels

  • No new CDs

  • No new books (maybe the occasional used book)

  • Eating out a lot less; the occasional social meal will still happen, let's be reasonable

And that's about all, really. Most of my disposable income goes to buying books, buying music, and eating out. I'd save a lot of money if I cut down on that stuff. I have to buy my coffee at Pergolesi, because sometimes I have to get out of the house, but really, that's pretty cheap. I spend money like water. It hasn't been a problem before, because I've had more than enough money, but for a little while, at least, that's going to change. Oh, well. I remember being poor. I went to college. There were times when I had 8 cents in my bank account. There were times when I rolled pennies for gas. There were times when the only thing that kept me alive was D.'s inexhaustible supply of Ramen and Totino's pizzas (which often went on sale, 5 for 5 dollars). I'm not that broke. This is no big deal, really. I'll make meals at home, and borrow books to read. I entertain myself with reading and writing. I don't need any new music. I shall endure.

*

What a strange, bitchy, wistful, hopeful bunch of words I've just written!

I hope the gods of Thursday treat you well.

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Freedom. It isn't once, to walk out
under the Milky Way, feeling the rivers
of light, the fields of dark--
freedom is daily, prose-bound, routine
remembering. Putting together, inch by inch
the starry worlds. From all the lost collections.

-Adrienne Rich, from "For Memory"