*A note: All of the below written to the ridiculously sublime soundtrack that is Nina Nastasia’s The Blackened Air. Thank you, my great friend for this great present.
A History of Insomnia, Part Umpteen.
I will not force myself to go to bed before I’m tired tonight. Well, say, sleepy. I’ve been tired for the last week straight; Tossing till two or waking up at three and not falling asleep again and so getting up and trying to get something done and getting sleepy again and going back to sleep at four – and never, ever, no matter the circumstance - sleeping past 7:30. Unable. I actually sit upright, morning after morning, Groundhog’s Day-style, and look at the clock just as the numbers click seven-three-oh.
What fun. Mostly.
Last night Marshall hosted for me a nice birthday party with hot piñata action and a low country boil which, ahem, I cooked and am proud to say turned out well.
I believe this completely: that the entirety of good feeling one is able to garner from parties thrown for oneself is nothing more or less than the feeling of relief when a couple of hours have passed, you look around and realize your guests are happy. The first half hour or so is often an adjustment, for guests and host, to the fact that This is a Party, yes. You come in Here and We make-a-the-merry, now. And getting brand-new guests who don’t know one another to talk and feel comfortable. This was somewhat complicated last night by the fact that I had this major-league cooking project and it wasn’t my own house and the host, my Guy-I’m-Dating, is really rather shy and didn’t know a lot of these people. But after a while I finally stopped worrying about what my guests did and how they were and just started hanging out in the kitchen talking with whoever wandered back there and then the rest was fine. Hey, because you know what else your guests are besides guests? Grown-ups. So. One-half nerve-wracking and one-half fun made it somehow worthwhile.
What you hear
I hear advice from different people and thanks to all ya’ll who cared enough not to dismiss all this ramble-ation over MFA programs as simple self-absorption. Or to indulge it, at any rate. Thank you for giving me sweet, well-thought out advice, yes yes.
To a person like me, though - a person who’s both rotten at choosing and terrified about choosing wrong and ruining her one chance and to one who perhaps over-dramatizes such things and builds them and blows them up to eight times life-size: Such a person hears many things and takes them into consideration and files them away with what the warring factions of her own brain have to say. And then such a person finally only really listens to the someone who finally says that which makes her most relieved, which gets her off the hook. And so a very warm thank you to my MFA’ed friend who left me the nice message tonight.
A History of Insomnia, Part Umpteen.
I will not force myself to go to bed before I’m tired tonight. Well, say, sleepy. I’ve been tired for the last week straight; Tossing till two or waking up at three and not falling asleep again and so getting up and trying to get something done and getting sleepy again and going back to sleep at four – and never, ever, no matter the circumstance - sleeping past 7:30. Unable. I actually sit upright, morning after morning, Groundhog’s Day-style, and look at the clock just as the numbers click seven-three-oh.
What fun. Mostly.
Last night Marshall hosted for me a nice birthday party with hot piñata action and a low country boil which, ahem, I cooked and am proud to say turned out well.
I believe this completely: that the entirety of good feeling one is able to garner from parties thrown for oneself is nothing more or less than the feeling of relief when a couple of hours have passed, you look around and realize your guests are happy. The first half hour or so is often an adjustment, for guests and host, to the fact that This is a Party, yes. You come in Here and We make-a-the-merry, now. And getting brand-new guests who don’t know one another to talk and feel comfortable. This was somewhat complicated last night by the fact that I had this major-league cooking project and it wasn’t my own house and the host, my Guy-I’m-Dating, is really rather shy and didn’t know a lot of these people. But after a while I finally stopped worrying about what my guests did and how they were and just started hanging out in the kitchen talking with whoever wandered back there and then the rest was fine. Hey, because you know what else your guests are besides guests? Grown-ups. So. One-half nerve-wracking and one-half fun made it somehow worthwhile.
What you hear
I hear advice from different people and thanks to all ya’ll who cared enough not to dismiss all this ramble-ation over MFA programs as simple self-absorption. Or to indulge it, at any rate. Thank you for giving me sweet, well-thought out advice, yes yes.
To a person like me, though - a person who’s both rotten at choosing and terrified about choosing wrong and ruining her one chance and to one who perhaps over-dramatizes such things and builds them and blows them up to eight times life-size: Such a person hears many things and takes them into consideration and files them away with what the warring factions of her own brain have to say. And then such a person finally only really listens to the someone who finally says that which makes her most relieved, which gets her off the hook. And so a very warm thank you to my MFA’ed friend who left me the nice message tonight.
posted by Alice at 10:34 PM
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