I’ve been hungry a lot lately. And not just for food, although that is the most pressing hunger at the moment. I’m beginning to enjoy the sensation. It’s a constant reminder of sacrifice. What, exactly am I sacrificing, and why? I’m not sure entirely. Yet. But I’m getting there. I think. It started with cheese. I stopped buying it. I realized one day that one chunk of cheese costs the equivalent of 10 loaves of bread, or 7 bags of pasta, or an entire refrigerator full of fresh produce from the neighborhood open-air market, including eggs. I felt like a wasteful sloth. And one without money to spare. It was also partly because somehow I do all the grocery shopping and the flatmate does the produce shopping and I realized I was getting the bad end of that bargain. Oil and detergent and cheese and milk and cereal come out to a bit more than spinach and onions and oranges. So I’m boycotting the market. Which leaves me with a loaf of bread, a bag of rice, lots of water, and random vegetables. And since I lack the culinary creativity to transform the random vegetables into something appetizing, it’s been toast and water for a few days. This is all quite silly, I realize. I could simply ask the flatmate to go to the market for a change. But I feel that this can also be a valuable lesson in survival and poverty and making the most of raw ingredients. Or something. Another thing contributing to this little bit of insanity is the insomnia that has crept into my bedroom and taken over my life. It makes me do strange things. Or, more like it, it makes me not do things. Like leave the house in the day time. Or work. Or get out of bed much. Or eat. Because who can rationalize making a meal at 3 a.m.? The other day I had a long bath. My insane bedhead since then is evidence of how close I’ve gotten to the shower since. Not very. My flatmate has begun to look at me in disgust. My response has been to stay in my room as much as possible. Last night was a social evening. I did have to leave the room. I tried to tie my hair back and I entered the kitchen in my pajamas, having a beer and smiling as much as possible while the flatmate got drunk with her boyfriend and cooked an actual meal. Then I sat on the floor of the living room and ate the meal. Then I retreated to my room again. The other night I left the building. I had intended all week to see a horrid American film in hopes that it would be cheesy enough to make me smile and dream without making me think too much. Every night I thought to myself, “tonight is the night I leave the house and go to the film.” But something always came up. I’d be in middle of composing a particularly important, long email. Or I’d fall asleep while reading. Finally, on Thursday, I raced through the streets, late, to the theatre. It was a nice diversion, but an awful film. The walk home, however, was glorious. I felt acutely alone. I fancied myself a strange solitary character in a sad poem or serious novel, walking the dark, lonely streets at an odd hour, swept up in some sort of emotion or thought. I hugged my coat to me, passing young and old people, all dolled up for a night on the town. The air was chill yet just warm enough. I craved cheese. Or chocolate. Or any processed, horrid food. Yet I somehow resisted the temptation and reveled in the pangs of hunger in my belly as I rounded the corner down the brothel street, which was oddly quiet and empty. It felt good. I have no idea why. “I go my myriad ways blundering, bombastic, dragged by a self that can never be still, pushed by my surging blood, my reasoning mind.” Thank you Ted Berrigan. I do have the vague feeling that all this is not really healthy. And that the behavior actually worries people. It worries me sometimes. Enough to try to change it, in fact. But it’s also gotten comfortable. The other night I didn’t sleep at all. And today I was only able to sleep in two-hour periods. Time has lost all significance. I drift in and out of consciousness, and waking has become pretty similar to sleeping. I spend a lot of time in a dream-like state. I’ve started creating fiction in my head again. Today I wrote some of it down. It wasn’t any good. But it got out of my head, a little. I started to listen carefully to lyrics of songs, as if they hold the meaning of life or something. I’ve looked for it elsewhere, see, and I feel like I’m starting to recognize it in everything. I read something in a book and realize someone just told me the same thing in a letter and then I hear it in a song and it’s all a somewhat new revelation, but everywhere. Was it there before? Did I fail to see it? Maybe I wasn’t looking. In that case, how much else have I missed? I’ve been almost as hungry for meaning as for food. I guess there’s not much to do but lay in the darkness and think half the night away. It feels good to think again. I had stopped doing it because I would inevitably end up depressed. But I’m not now, oddly, even though of all times in my life, it is now that I am most alone. Monday I might start talking to heroin addicts again. Interacting with criminals and those on the fringes of society always makes me feel the most alive. They seem to have more insights than normal people. They seem to have experienced the real stuff of life. And they are honest. More honest than I am, even to myself. I will at least walk. Walk until my limbs hurt and my side aches. There’s nothing like physical fatigue to revive you. I listened to the new B&S single and it’s disturbingly twee. Like, too happy. And old-fashioned. I sighed when I heard it. And it made me sad. Because I was upset at how happy it was, so I thought that must make me old and bitter, or something. The day that I lose appreciation for B&S will be a very sad day. And I worried that it had come. So I put on IYFS in a panic and relaxed. A little. Maybe when I’m happier again it will all be ok. But for now. Eek! I want to take a walk. But I’m in my pajamas. And it’s not safe. So instead, I will put on some Fred Astaire and challenge myself not to think of Christmas. No, that is torture. I will put on some Camera Obscura and think of sweet Gavin and Primrose Hill and a bunch of sweet boys and girls huddled together awkwardly dreaming of a warm pub. And I will lay in the dark and join Ruvi in thinking about the sea, which is not so far away from here, and clear and enticing to most people but full of sea urchins who scare me away. I hate beaches. ~dahling ps: after that, I feel obliged to make you laugh. So please go to: http://buscemi.diaryland.com/older.html it’s Steve Buscemi’s online diary and it is absolutely hysterical. pps: Bug Stu, you scare me. You exude coolness like cheap cologne. And although I like the scent, I’m afraid to get too close because it’s a bit overpowering. I have a very sensitive nose. Ian, your dates with the list smell lovely. And Ruvi. Mmm. Ken, you know I love you. You make me smile. Always. http://www.geocities.com/dahling007 _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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