— tapioca world tour

You know how some people say you just have to envision what you want in order for it to actually be made manifest? Here’s what I’m envisioning:

- A nice, affordable studio flat with dual-colored walls: two sides lime green, two sides dark beige; ample kitchen space and a bathroom with superbly-functioning plumbing and electric wiring; I will build a loft for the bed to go on top and the bike to go underneath, build a large desk and overhanging shelves for an editing suite, and will hang my punching bag in the corner, or on the deck.
- A new Mac G5 tower (yes, I’m caving in to multimedia peer pressure here, so sue me).
- An overabundance of fresh fruits and vegetables.
- Immaculately clean countertops, floors, walls, and toilets.

That’s it, really. That’s the collective whole of what I want. Except I’m afraid it’ll make me complacent again, provoke an inability to travel for long periods of time. Whatever.*

*(I had a stepfather once, briefly, decades ago, who said my problem was not merely OCD or stubborness or an inability to conform to any social mores, but rather a hyperactive imagination: I would imagine both good and bad potential outcomes of any event, situation or circumstance, and this incited both irrational fears and positive anticipations, none of which were fully based on reality. I guess not much has changed in 15 years…)

But, as Mohan says, “This is a take world, Bonnie. You have to reach out and take what you want. Nothing will ever happen if you just sit back complacently and wait.” I’m hoping she’s wrong, but a little feminist assertiveness never hurt anyone…except, maybe, all those girls who jumped out the windows of Smith College…

OY!

* * * In non-women’s-college-news,
Ben and I hung out last night. We were served meat by a funny waiter, then went to see Kinsey. I still love Liam Neeson as much as I did when I was 16. After tea and perpetual banter (me), I went home and dreampt of having wild, fun adventures with my old roommates in England. In some funny way, I feel like a part of me is still there, living with them. In this mirror reality we are having burgers at The Krobar and sharing McVitties plain chocolate digestives and talking about international politics and relationships at night, and dressing up for crazy multi-lingual parties. My perpetual contact with them via cyberspace could account for this feeling, but, perhaps on the other side of our weird mobius strip, I’m still there right now, brewing bad coffee with bad water into a cracked pot for all of us.

J. and I made the recent discovery that we both write dates and phone numbers Euro-style (or global style), ie: 21/Jan.05 or 21 January 2005 or 617.868.6600 or 617 868 6600.

As he says:
Using the dashes and periods in the date totally tickles my brain. like when you’re making a cake and mixing the ingredients in a bowl. you’ll see the flour spread out on the bottom and on top, you’ll have little sand castles of brown sugar and crisco or whatever (do people really put crisco in cakes?) and they’re all different shapes and sizes and none of it makes any sense. until you take a step back and recognize that each ingredient is the perfect size/shape to create this awesome thing (cake). but instead of a cake, you’re making a little nugget of information that is completely 100% efficient. so efficient that if it were a flame, it would produce no smoke. so efficient, that it must be european.

When in God’s name (no pun intended) did it become acceptable for Bush’s $40m inagural celebrations to include the “Christian Inaugural Eve Gala” sponsored by the Traditional Values Coalition? And where are all those thousands of back-turning protesters? I don’t see them in the news.

Really, I think this photo from the cowboy hat inaugural gala says it all.

Indeed. God help us.

Found in a bathroom in the East Village

So we’re having a problem with internet at home. Hopefully a network connection issue and not a virus. I’d explain the problem (hardly any pages will load, that’s the problem), but to go into greater depth would put you to sleep.

It’s been so cold lately. This morning at 5a I drove Ry and L. to the airport so they can play gigs in Salt Lake during the Sundance Film Fest all this week. Since I was sleeping both before and after driving them, I barely remember the experience now, some eight hours later. Creepy how that happens. You try to recall how you focused your eyes, how you drove through various tunnels, how you parked…but it’s all fuzzy. This is one fuzzy season. The windows of the van fog up constantly, and I’m beginning to believe that’s a metaphor for all of winter.

But don’t get me wrong…I still think 2005 is going to be superb.
As Shiva in Maaahnchesta says:
“all i wanna do is read and write and explore and drink coffee and eat eat eat.” Amen, sista.

…played an amazing show at the Paradise last night. I know because, thanks to Ry, the bartenders let us into the sold-out show through the back door and we got to catch the last hour of Ray’s performance. We also got to stand around the exclusive meet-and-greet session, although after Ryan met Ray, I somehow didn’t get a chance to…he doesn’t do photos, and his manager started talking to him, so I just walked away. Better to be a silent fan than a pesky asshole demanding an autograph. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

I would talk about the low-key musician party at Tom and Danielle’s flat, but that would bore you, even though I had fun.

In baby-related news, I took care of 11-month-old G. again today. Will post some fun photos soon. What an incredibly cute little guy. I could and do give up my social life in its entirety in exchange for hanging out with this baby.

And now I’m tired and I want some cappucino cheesecake, but I won’t get it. Goodnight.

Tonight K. called in distress. She’s the little sister (21) of a friend of mine. I’ve known her years. She was drunk tonight, which was not unusual, but this time she became extremely confessional on the phone about her drug & alcohol use, her perpetual tendency to lie, and other self-destructive actions.

I never know what to do in these situations. “I haven’t been happy since I was ten,” she told me. And so, as kids do (and as therapists tell them to do), this emptiness is numbed with more and more ineffective substances (prescribed and procured) until pain is blurred into a manageable state of apathy. I hate that. I hate this world sometimes. Why can’t we just wake up from this?

We got disconnected eventually — there was a party going on in the background — after which I did the only responsible thing I am capable of doing that could possibly help her: I prayed. I should pray more, these days, and in general.