September 8, 1998
C'est Vrai?


Posting a journal entry when I'm quietly happy ("Deliciously Unplugged") or crushingly depressed ("Anniversaries From Hell") is simple: I just sit here at the keyboard and let 'er rip. The heart and the brain and the fingers go to work, and the result  --  while not precisely *great literature*  --  is usually more entertaining than, say, an "American Journal" re-re-run. (If they're brother and sister, how come she's Michelle DABNEY Perez but he's not CHARLES "Dabney" Perez??)

What isn't quite so simple is taking a day as mundane and *nothing* as today was, and transforming that into art. This will doubtless be a continuing challenge, as I:

1. Plan to continue this online journaling stuff until I die or get sick of it or fall in love again or my computer explodes or I become a famous novelist ... whichever comes first,

and

2. The odds that I'll have 99 "mundane *nothing*" days for every one even remotely interesting day are ... well ... 99 out of 100, forcryingoutloud.

This is an even bigger challenge, in fact, than tiptoeing around the feelings of IRL people who aren't exactly thrilled to suddenly be thrust into the mini-spotlight of my website, without warning OR  royalties (Daughter #2: "If you write about me, say my name is 'Alicia,' OK?") ...

... a bigger challenge than idiotically trying to *protect* people who don't deserve to be protected (c'est vrai?) ...

... a bigger challenge, even, then trying to figure out how the hell to get my columns to align correctly ...

What in the world can I tell you about this day that won't send you plummeting immediately into a coma, Dear Reader???  I doubt that my morning walk to the bus stop would be of much interest ...

... although this morning it was finally cool enough to require a sweater, after a week and a half of punishing Oregon heat wave, and I felt more alive and energetic than I have in days, as a result ...

... and there were squirrels running 440's in the trees above me as I clomped down the crooked alley, in my natty little suit and my high heels (wondering, all the while, if squirrels can poop on someone from "the trees above") ...

... and as I sat in my regular spot at the bus stop, in front of the Great Dane House, reading my library book ("Writing Down The Bones," Natalie Goldberg, checked out for the third time in a row), the nice old lady from across the street  --  the one who reminds me of my grandmother  --  shuffled outside in bedslippers and robe to her newspaper box and smiled at me and said "Morning," while her cats swirled protectively around her ankles, and I once again thought about how I should knock on her door one afternoon with a plate of cookies ...

... and I dug around in my purse for my $1.05 bus fare and discovered a five dollar bill I'd forgotten I had, and rejoiced because this meant I could rescue my #3 Favorite Blouse from Dry Cleaning Jail this pay period, after all ...

... and my regular bus driver was (hallelujah!) back this week, the nice bus driver who stops at the bottom of the hill, just for me, so I won't have to clomp uphill in the high heels, and who solicitously checks my facial expression every morning as I deposit my fare, just to make sure it isn't one of *those* days, where I sit in the middle section of the bus and look silently out the window, weeping behind my sunglasses ...

... and when I got off the bus and was walking up the road towards my office, I walked on the north side of the road so I could look at the wildflowers ...

Yeah. I know. Deadly dull. Mundane stuff.

C'est le vie.


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