Eventually, this will be erased and no longer available.
To my left, through the door, J is speaking with B: I don't hear the words they are saying but the ups and downs of J's voice.
A leak dripped through the neon light.
The cars sound to the right.
The water is still dripping and there's a hum and occasionally deep thumping sounds from illegal construction.
A series of drawings made 10 days ago is scattered on the floor. Some have yellow.
A blue painting I made months ago sits off to the side, and a yellow mark that filled me with deep joy on another painting: partly for how it seems both a block of color and space: and how it lead to the pale blue next to it: that is both mark and seems to hover above the surface with tension.
I can no longer stand this place: but is it really me I cannot stand? Yesterday I was in Des Moines: I was stuck in the lobby of the Marriott checking email and listening to interviews with the Icelandic Sjón and the expat in Paris Alice Notley but I couldn't concentrate on any writing. The man behind the desk let me go into the conference room where there is complimentary tea and water. I felt I was in high-school procrastinating on a paper. I had tried to leave the day before: so I was suck there, in this little subset of America where people are kind and attentive and not used to abnormalities of the spirit. Or perhaps they are.
I had a layover in Denver and got a wrap filled with brown rice and tofu and felt sorry for the man filling it (where is he from? an asian country. and how has he found himself here?): it seems such a horrible job. He made a mess of it so took a fresh tortilla to start again. He seemed a quiet personality only wishing to please with the nervousness that accompanies a lack of proficiency. On the flight, I was very aware of the couple behind me to the left: a fit young woman and young man. I kept imagining they were speaking about me: what I was reading, what I was wearing, what I was eating. I was so frenetic and uncomfortable the entire trip and was wearing clothes in need of laundering. To my left was a middle-aged man with smoke on his breath. When we landed, he looked on his phone. The last message said "I Love You." On the flight, he watched a film with Anthony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin in which Hopkins makes eye contact with a bear in the forrest, and the bear cowers before him: man over nature.
I arrived in LA at 9pm and gathered my things and boarded the airport bus to Enterprise (which isn't quite complementary: you'll see they add a $7 charge to your rental) to get a car and then drive to Greenblatt's deli for M and Whole Foods for some raisins. I dropped these provisions at his apartment (earlier in the day, I'd called Max about feeding the cat) and opened the books; he received one I think Y would like: the title made me think of her: by Haldo Laxness: The Fish Can Sing.
Then I returned to the airport to pick M up and we waited awhile for his luggage; he asked whether I parked close-by. He spoke a bit of the trip. I spoke of the wedding: that if you count the four of us: one is a dentist, one is a doctor, one a tenured history professor, and then there's me: the doctor is a very tall woman; she played basketball: and the dentist is quite short. The history professor emanates light. The bride herself is auburn and freckled and will be starting a curatorial position in Kansas City. She studies early american (18th century) painting and is interested in the social history of objects, which I told everyone, at the rehearsal dinner, in my speech. I also said that when she peels an egg, she does it to such perfection that no white comes off with the shell.
We drove back and then I helped unload and drove the rest of the way home and arrived around 1:30am.
This morning, I woke at 6:30, likely from the time in Iowa, as it would be 8:30, and lay for another few hours and drank some water and then drove to Enterprise in Pasadena to return the car and pick up my own. On my phone, I read about Enterprise, as I waited for them to drop me off. An enterprise executive, in 2007, wrote about what a scam the whole thing is: there aren't any set prices. I remember having read this article before. These old boys : what got them here? (they are really quite young boys: younger than 30 or maybe 33 at most) with suits and bad ties and some gel in the hair.
At the volvo place, my car looked alright; they'd bent it back into shape as best they could : but they told me a number of things are about to go; I'd said something about wanting a new one so D suggested the Volvo C30: a cute little hatchback with good fuel economy and still a manual transmission that, used, would cost $15,000. VB drives an '88: older cars are prettier. And couldn't i just suck it up and drive this one till it dies? Why want everything so good? And K just got a toyota corolla for $2,000 so I could do that although it's against my aesthetic sensibilities.
In the Alice Notley interview she talks about how we're killing the planet, which we are, and why can't we just come to our senses: and I think: I can't come to my senses, the way things are going. There's no way. I'm driving all day and have stopped sprouting lentils and don't recycle as thoroughly and some people don't do it at all, like M, but he doesn't live in the physical world. We're all here, though, and I feel I've neglected my physical world (the world of appearances) but I don't so much think the two are meant to be divided.
The bride's father is a lawyer and there are pictures of him with democratic presidential candidates and presidents in his office.