berlitz

the more i'm alone, the more i come back to writing again. it's the alone-ness, right? maybe it's not having yet another person to tell all the things i tell everyone in my life everyday. maybe it's being withdrawn; wishing to not speak and only to write.

i left myself without car for isolation. i didn't get the hair dye. but i did go to the royal oak garage sale with angela, which for the most part was overpriced, and which for the whole part was hot. complain-worthy hot. the service at beruit palace was also complain-worthy, and their limited selection of hot sauce [only tabasco, meh] was totally worthy of the-exclamation-of-the-day, "what the fuck?!" [also donned by shirtless man at the sale, pregnant/overweight woman in spandex, &tc.] the superfalafel [one word, for sure] was mediocre. there were actually a couple booths at the sale with reasonably priced items, and i picked up a small vintage planter in the shape of a shiny blue calf, complete with rosey cheeks and already bearing a plant. i'd provide a photo if the camera i was using was still here. and also one of the very old plastic santa riding a tin-toy 3-wheeler. i can't figure out why, but his arms are not attached to his body but to each other by a cord that threads through his torso, causing them to flail freely, almost too freely. he's part of my new semi-new endeavor to collect fabulous xmas pieces from the 40s/50s/60s. as if brimming the house with miniature xmas trees this year wasn't enough.

the rest of the day has been spent pretending to work but not working much at all. tonight holds no movies, no bar, no television, no crocheting. just more pretending to work. the feeling of nothing sometimes feels good. nothing feels good. whoa. so that's where they got it? and listening to seam are you driving me crazy?. just makes sense.