melting crayons

Italian internet about Procol Harum's 'A Whiter Shade Of Pale': Super vintage, quando si ballavano i lenti. Halo flowers fashioned around the heads of dead foxes. The original poster from the first screening of The Evil Dead. LET'S MAKE OUT in bubble alphabet. The 'O' is lips. An art installation called Shadows Come Alive In Abandoned Psychiatric Hospital. The antipasti menu from a place called Lucky Pie. The OMG most amazing treehouse, like, ever. A dog has always, since its birth, sat with its legs sprawled open like an old guy in a recliner. Five Alkalizing Foods To Eat Every Day. O Lord, I feel it. Here's my heart, Lord, take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above.

I sit in a hotel room writing for corporate magazines and tumblr-ing for a living, scrolling through the ripped out magazine pages, squeals, and angst of people much younger than I am. I reblog and think about the internet in Italy, wondering if there's a woman there who used to, at least vaguely, tell the world how she felt about things as a point of exercise before it all became too much like molasses to pour lightly.


I shut the laptop. The kids jump on the beds. We are here because we are in a fancy mood. We get away. We play pool, swim, choose caramels from the candy bar. We sit on every chair in the lobby. We race to the elevator button and back to the room. We dance rudely in our boxer shorts to music we don't know. We all fall down. We spin, sprawl, curl up.

There is always that pull, when I'm with the kids, to be making money. And when I'm making money, to be with the kids. And no matter where I am, to be writing something that someone might publish. Every other writer seems more devoted, more disciplined, more daily. But I have to call the electrician; the carpenter; somebody to bury the power cable. I have to get the shed finished. People are coming.

A mobile sign on the old highway says YOU DON'T BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU HAVE TIME and as it means to, it makes me think of all the dead people, the ones yanked away and the ones who drift away, and oh god, I am not writing, not making something, not beginning another book. I should be halfway through the next one by now. I need to at least outline it because so far, my average is a five-year gap. It can't stay that way. People are coming. I need more shellac.

The shed is almost finished (more here). People arrive tomorow for the first photography workshop and the trim may or may not be dry, but it will be ready, or close enough. My dad has been my collaborator, my teacher. He knows how to work the table saw and how to dispose of turpentine. It's pulled me outside all summer, these tasks, and working alongside him. It's seemed unending and now, like a finished manuscript, I see so many imperfections. What needs sanding, planing, glazing, another coat. I worry I didn't do enough, did too much. I am so grateful to my dad for being such a confident maker/hacker. I want to be, too.

Beyond marginal fussing and the workshop, I see time freeing up. We will lay the hearth with rock and put the chimney through the roof and I'll spend days this winter, I hope, warm enough and onto the next thing. Deluded, maybe, about my prematurely-banked chances to get everything straightened out and caught-up—and often distracted by melting rainbows—but aren't we all?