The Alien Corn
Oct. 23rd, 2011 10:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraThe other thing I hate about upstate New York?
How much housework I’m always having to do.
It’s not just entropy -- last night’s dinner dishes, the animal-related stuff, the coffee stains that magically appear on kitchen counters. It’s also the bugs. Quite literally if you don’t go over every corner, sill and ledge at least every other day with industrial strength spray stuff, your house becomes one vast arthropod Forest Lawn, decorated for Halloween all year long!
I hate doing housework. But as without, so within, right? You cannot sustain any kind of orderly and serene mental processes if you live in a dump.
So go ahead – drink from my toilet!
###
Susan wrote me a long email about Occupying Oakland and so I woke up this morning with a lump in my throat, that really disorienting sense of I shouldn’t be here. She emailed me photographs too: Broadway on a beautiful, warm, sunny day. I wanted to cry! Here in Buttfuck, New York we’re in the last queasy days of autumn before the first Big Snow. It’s been actually a really lovely fall this year, something I don’t remember at all last year – the hills an amazing montage of reds, yellows, oranges; the leaves falling quite suddenly when they finally fall. Only the willows and a few of the oaks still have leaves. Fall Creek is swollen, all the beave dams swept away though that strange solitary heron still haunts the creek bend. He should really be thinking of taking off: We haven’t even actually had a hard overnight frost yet, but it can’t be too far off.
###
Been writing bios of Middle Eastern potentates for one of my jobs: Sheikha Mozah, Emir Hamad, King Abdullah! For the other, I am reading and annotating building codes.
I would really, really like to find some time to do my own work this weekend – in fact, the only reason I bother to write here is to keep me nimble enough so that maybe, maybe, I can write there – but I’m not sure I’ll be able to.
I left off describing Alvarado Street during Prohibition. The strange little dress shops with spiderwebs trailing from the gingham gunnysacks in the dirty front windows because the shops were really just fronts for upstairs speakeasies. I get so caught up in these long elaborate descriptions that no one is actually gonna read anyway.
###
I miss my home. I miss my home.
I don’t even know where my home is anymore.
But I miss it.
How much housework I’m always having to do.
It’s not just entropy -- last night’s dinner dishes, the animal-related stuff, the coffee stains that magically appear on kitchen counters. It’s also the bugs. Quite literally if you don’t go over every corner, sill and ledge at least every other day with industrial strength spray stuff, your house becomes one vast arthropod Forest Lawn, decorated for Halloween all year long!
I hate doing housework. But as without, so within, right? You cannot sustain any kind of orderly and serene mental processes if you live in a dump.
So go ahead – drink from my toilet!
Susan wrote me a long email about Occupying Oakland and so I woke up this morning with a lump in my throat, that really disorienting sense of I shouldn’t be here. She emailed me photographs too: Broadway on a beautiful, warm, sunny day. I wanted to cry! Here in Buttfuck, New York we’re in the last queasy days of autumn before the first Big Snow. It’s been actually a really lovely fall this year, something I don’t remember at all last year – the hills an amazing montage of reds, yellows, oranges; the leaves falling quite suddenly when they finally fall. Only the willows and a few of the oaks still have leaves. Fall Creek is swollen, all the beave dams swept away though that strange solitary heron still haunts the creek bend. He should really be thinking of taking off: We haven’t even actually had a hard overnight frost yet, but it can’t be too far off.
Been writing bios of Middle Eastern potentates for one of my jobs: Sheikha Mozah, Emir Hamad, King Abdullah! For the other, I am reading and annotating building codes.
I would really, really like to find some time to do my own work this weekend – in fact, the only reason I bother to write here is to keep me nimble enough so that maybe, maybe, I can write there – but I’m not sure I’ll be able to.
I left off describing Alvarado Street during Prohibition. The strange little dress shops with spiderwebs trailing from the gingham gunnysacks in the dirty front windows because the shops were really just fronts for upstairs speakeasies. I get so caught up in these long elaborate descriptions that no one is actually gonna read anyway.
I miss my home. I miss my home.
I don’t even know where my home is anymore.
But I miss it.
