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Not Writing

January 11, 2016

I’m not writing.

I went to Portland for Christmas. I wrote copious notes each day in my little notebook. I was supposed to write long, funny stories from those scribblings. But I didn’t.

It was cold and rainy. I did not fall in love with Portland. I saw snow on Mt. Hood. I bonded with my grand son. I enjoyed my son-in-law’s taste in music. I played with dolls with a little girl at a breakfast counter. I met my future self sitting at a bar in a little neighborhood restaurant. She was reading a book with a book light, drinking red wine and making snide comments about the clientele to the bartender, who obviously knew her quite well.

I saw the coast and fell in love with rocks and cliffs. I perused through Powell’s, which is more like a natural history museum than a bookstore. I baked cookies and folded paper cranes. I acclimated to my daughter again after 3 years away from her. I saw Star Wars. I dropped my phone and had it repaired for too much money. I missed my flight and doubled the cost of my trip. I had a Tinder date with a guy who showed up in flip flops.

I came home and discovered I had missed the Iraqi and the next day he left to go to Iraq. I made more prints for my photography exhibit. I installed the exhibit. Liz helped. Liz worked miracles. “Liz: Making Marie less ridiculous since 2011,” I proclaimed on facebook.

The exhibit was a success. Lots of people showed up. The Indian Association saw it as their own success. My brothers and son were there. It was a good day for me. A minor highlight of success.

I started talking to a Jordanian from OK Cupid. And told him I was “seeing someone” before I met him in person. He drove around with me Sunday looking for places to rent. I don’t know what I’m doing with him. It feels like I’m playing with him for attention and company.

I told my boss I need to make an exact amount of money. My rent is going up. I’m in an unsustainable situation. I have to make more money, find another cheap place to live, get another job, refinance some debt or some variation of those things. And I’m scared.

And I’m not writing.



From → Rantings

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