I Need Some Fresh Eyre

In which Ms. Blue Jeans balances bohemian with bourgeois and tries to live the Snoopy dance.

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Location: Charlottesville, VA, United States

Monday, February 06, 2006

Resolution

I've taken to thrashing at night, feet yanking out the sheet from its neat pink tuck, rolling until the down comforter rides in ridges, hides my futon-sunk exhausted body. My dreams wake me chasing breath. They are bizarre but serious-seeming: I drive a school bus in a short skirt; Tom Cruise makes my childhood friend Lia eat a live ferret. In my bed in the long night, there is nothing funny about a ferret in the belly.
My nights are my narrative. I spend days with myself, mostly, and the slow stretch of my (undeniable) learning, but also with people who are many things but never endearing. When they scratch my surface, those familiar strangers, they do so with irritations so bound up and mundane that I wonder what alchemy happens to make people laugh with them and love them behind doors. School refuses -- refuses -- to be the story I want to tell. At around eight pm, question time begins (what is a story if not the answer to some question): what is ordinary? what is forgetting? remembering? what are limits and what is growth? who why where what how? To ask requires energy and, I guess, hope. An unexamined life is lived in eleven-hour work days. My days are short. At night they're examined into kicking darkness.

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