Each Episode

It is a privilege to use my exhaustion and sadness for the ultimate comfort of spaghetti.

From the perspective of my gut I don’t understand. Stomach-logic urges me forward but my position is stasis. I stand in the middle and don’t say anything. When things are calmer I want a beer.

I stay up till 2. Half-sleep-stress but I wake up in drool so know I have rested better than others.

I missed the dinner I made for my dad, sibling, and roommate. Listening to Angel Olsen and muted crying from the other room, everyone around looks at their phones. I am hungry!  “I am hungry.”

Sarah suggests we make food with the food in the kitchen. Angelo and Christian go soak in 10K waves. Sarah and I develop a cooking show where we go to other people’s kitchens and make meals with what is there – an amalgamation of every cooking/travel channel show attuned to DIY live-work space reality.

Sweet potatoes with garlic and kale, rice with nooch and oregano, black beans with chile and mission tortillas fried in extra virgin olive oil. Hot sauce and salsa. The last part of the show is a judgement is made by the touring band: “This burrito is worth $9, $12 if there were avocado and fresh lime.”

At the end of each episode we clean the kitchen to a state so magnificent the denizens of the warehouse can hardly believe it. I was really going for it on that stove, my observational skills attuning to someone else’s age-old egg-grime and scrubbing with the force of wanting to say what I mean but not knowing what I mean. I got an electric shock from the stove and Sarah said cleaning was finished.

We watch part of a Werner Herzog movie, I admire formal decisions and wonder if they used a crane, a helicopter, or a drone. I drive Bea home.

Rat Rat is locked when I’m back but I’m let in. What are we listening to? “Death in June.” Angelo and Christian come home with a Sprite for John. “What are we listening to?” “Death in June.”

Genocide in Northern Iraq on the trampoline. There is no equivalency but systemic racism in America is still bad. Let’s kill the cops tonight.

I stand around, I hope I am a good dog. I am confused about what is happening and afraid about how things could be worse. I’m also bored and exhausted. My perspective is not vital.

I have the lucky neurochemical-tuning of an optimist. I sent a psychic text to mama at work today. Tina told me when she arrived. Standing 5’3” mom thought the ceiling in my office was low. I always bump into that ceiling and today I bumped into quiet baristas while hovering several tired inches above the ground. “I know what I want – 3 iced coffees with chocolate and almond milk and sugar!”

Satie is playing for the quiet baristas of the world. “This song kicks ass” I practically yell. My mom and I laugh to the point where books are falling off the shelves.

I did my best at work, and at the grocery store.  “New Years eve” from the Hannah Med H soundtrack is on repeat and I eat spaghetti the way you are supposed to – standing over the stove and dipping the noodles into the sauce with my hands.


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