12:27 a.m. - 07/19/03
sleepy thoughtlings.
Hmh^, I'm having memories of this time during the "I must write everyday" phase of Atomgirl, where I did not manage to make it "home" and write until just after midnight. And it's funny to me that it mattered so much because it's sweet to me that it doesn't now.
Things I've Realized In The Past Few Hours:
-The fact that I managed to *start* writing a caged entry and give myself *a taste of* Blue Shoe today is enough. I also managed to sort through some of my belongings in hopes of the move, to have good conversation, and feel intelligent. Screw doing several billion things at once. I do not need to (go crazy trying to) do that. I need to make some sort of what-I-want-to-do list so I can keep track of things and stop worrying about when I will actually do them.
-On other fronts where drastic action seemed to rule earlier: I do not need to quit reading Bobby completely and forever. I simply need to understand that there's been a shift and what I might read if I visit Bobby's diary is different, and more potentially day-cracking/ heartbreaking than what he wrote before. If I understand that every time before I choose whether or not to read, I'll be fine.
-I do not have enough sleeping pills to make it to Monday. I need to call the doc and deal with this.
-Memories of important (and, er, magnetic?) relationships with girls keep reaching further and further into my history. They keep sprouting up in places I thought I'd already thoroughly rooted through. I had a strong heart-memory today of yet another Sara and some plastic Cabbage Doll figures from McDonalds. I may need to add that (and some other things) to my relational biography.
-The first line of We Were The Mulvaneys is "We Were the Mulvaneys, remember us?" and some days that is absolutely all I need to say.
I wonder if this book will turn into my family biography, the counterpart to the self/illness biography I found in ...Rose Garden. A story about a (decidedly more normal) family that people take notice of because they are thought to be huge (but really there are only six) and storybook (but really, they're not - though they, too, may be confused by that illusion) which seems to disintegrate for what are actually several reasons. ...To think I acquired a copy again without one thought of the familial parallels. To think this wasn't my (conscious) purpose at all.
-I can't throw books away. Even ones that are not precious memories and are in haggard shape. And of the books that I can give away, I'm uncertain if anything an eight- to thirteen-year-old might read is eligible. Because I'm having strong maternal feelings for that dimension of myself ever since I wrote the scary-brave entry. I want to buy her presents. Journals in neon colors that talk about girl power and why she'll make a fantastic woman - but more importantly why she's fantastic as is. I want to do the best I can without a time-machine to instill in her all the Things I Wish I'd Known I Could Tell Myself...
but that's another list, and I am sleepy.
chord
^that translates to a small smile and amused sniff (or rather, a quick exhale)
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