The wind is a warning

I love when you've been on livejournal so long that you don't even realize you start to take for granted the presence of certain people on your friends list until you enter into a new crushed out period with them. Right now, I'm all about bigfatmama, which, I mean, it's not like I was ever NOT about her or something, it's just more that I'm acting like I just discovered her journal and how fabulous she is even though we've been reading each other's stuff for, what, I don't know, four years? At the very least, three years.

I'm in a weird weird weird weird mood and have been all week. Very much in my head and somewhat withdrawn. Not necessarily depressed, I don't feel sad exactly, but I don't exactly feel buoyant and joyful and present. I have moments of being fine, don't get me wrong. It makes me think I'm processing something unconsciously and wrestling around and soon it will pop out fully formed from my head, like Athena.¹ I'm also absorbed in more writing and reading projects and finding it hard to shift gears quickly and focus on the present, but I'm not sure if that's a cause or an effect. My moodiness is slow, I guess.

Yesterday I went to a rally about an anti-immigration bill and pretended to be a heterosexual man married to cocolola who was carrying around our blue-eyed baby, except I didn't really pretend, people made those assumptions, and I just felt awkward and wasn't sure if it was worth the effort to correct them. I like hanging out with them on babysitting days because I get to hang out with a baby too (and because usually Hot Doug's is involved), and I might not be the first person in a room to run up to a stroller and make faces, but I do dig hanging out with babies. However, I felt more comfortable afterwards with just Coco, sans baby, sitting at restaurant with a margarita in hand and eating nachos. That's more my everyday style.

¹: I knew limenal was a soulmate of mine when she finished this sentence on our first dinner date.

Let me know the wonder of all of you.

I know I just posted and I should be reading my workshop stories, but I don't know, I think something happens when I take a walk and blood starts moving up to my brain and things get unstuck, whether they be ideas or emotions or whatever. But last night I was reading Pessoa and then I was lying there in bed while dommeyourass was reading and leaning on my chest, and I started writing this short story in my head about zombies. ???? I don't know. I mean, I'm kinda down with zombies, but I'm not some zombie lover. In a pop culture appearance sense. Frankly, I come up with all sorts of strange creative ideas while lying in bed half-asleep, it's just the majority of them don't survive through the night and into the morning. Or if they do last, they are so near impossible that I toss them to the bottom of the lifetime to-do list. Like once when I decided to write and stage a 2-person version of the Stanley Lombardo's translation of the Illiad. But this one, I'm walking to the coffeeshop and I start thinking of it again, and I'm all like, fck yeah! Zombie short story! And it'll be a short short, somewhere between flash fiction and a the long-winded near-novella short stories I tend to write. Dude. Zombies. Except this guy in my program did his senior reading from this story/novel from the 1st person perspective of a zombie and it was SO BAD. A good idea, but SO BAD in execution. Maybe it was his live reading of it, more than the text itself, I can't be entirely sure.

I'm at Mojoe's coffeeshop, which the first time I came, I didn't like cause there were lots of rockabilly people and a jazz combo playing, but I keep coming back because it's a 15 minute walk from my house, they make great lattes, they have free wireless, they have a great book collection and board games, the baristas are super super nice and one of them is super super foxy. Today I asked if there were having music, because I wanted to sit on a couch but knew that would become the "stage" and the Foxy Barista informed me they have a basement and so that's where I am and I love it, with the huge bad paintings and bookshelves with more good books and a tv and colorful plastic chairs around a big round table and a couch with an awkward slip cover and no one else. I feel like I'm in someone's rec room. Oh, and Foxy Bartista is playing the Smiths and the echoey melancholy vocals are drifting down the stairs.

Except it's really beautiful outside and I"m planning on walking around more later, but I want to do it now, now, now. Settle down, inner child. This weather actually reminds me of L.A. when I was there in January.