2003-12-23 - 1:33 a.m.
dear diary,
the last two hours of my life have been perfection. apple cinnamon tea, cheese and crackers and olives, pajamas, smokes, alone time and annie hall.
the house is quiet, so quiet that i can hear deer bleating outside. a calf that has lost her mama? it's the most mournful suffering sound i've heard in a long time.
i think about movies tonight- so many good movies, so many black and white movies i never committed myself to seeing. i have these aspirations at one in the morning usually, that make me want to be a better person through historical escapism. i want to read one hundred classics, i want the see the best one hundred movies ever made, i want to be the type of person that has things dry cleaned and can hail cabs and look smart in a man's tie instead of the bozo cum avril lavigne look it gives me instead.
i thought maybe going to mass for the first time in about 14 years would make the difference. something about ornate gold and weeping statues and lighting candles and clicking a rosary... but it isn't me anymore.
i've been reading sex drugs and cocoa puffs by chuck klosterman, arguably one of the most important books i've read this year... if you don't count camus and you overlook my antonia.
once i can get past the cynicism and the rambling and skip past the sports metaphors for life, it's one of those books i digest in small doses, and i haven't had one of those for a long time. in fact the last book i read like that was nietzche's good and evil.
i was pretty sure for a long time i could never be in a relationship with someone that hated woody allen. usually when people hate woody allen it's either because of his scandalous life or because they don't "get it."
i watched moonstruck tonight and am having harsh cravings for all things family - this would be a good part to point out that i'm extremely italian, and i say extremely in every sense of the word. sometimes that brooklyn accent creeps back into my mouth without my acquiesence and fungul and capisce and shchandubatse become regular vernacular, affectionately translated as fuck, ok?, and shithead.
i miss eggs in a hat with rep peppers and i miss new year's pizza and christmas lobsters and spumoni and sugar cubes and tiama and that sense of understanding my history, the stars, the universe, and my purpose.
"recreate it" i'm constantly told. start the new traditions, the new practices, incorporate, assimilate, become, exist.
and, sometimes i do.
sometimes the sauce doesn't turn out, sometimes they can't tell the difference.
i know the difference between a sauce made with love, tears, history - culture and a sauce made in a factory with metal and sweat and laborious amounts of unlove.
something so big is on the verge of breaking in my life and i'm ready to welcome it.
suffering deer calves and all.