Okay, okay.
I did really well this month. I have officially finished White Oleander and The Motel Life before March ended (and it will end tomorrow). This leaves April totally open to pursue A Game of Thrones and possibly Sherlock Holmes if I feel brave.
All I can say about White Oleander is wow, just wow. Read it. You won’t be disappointed. It’s a beautiful piece of fiction and I envy it thoroughly.
The last weekend in March, the pollen begins to fall again like snow. On an overcast day like today, it’s visible as small grains of particulate drifting down from the trees. As I stand outside, ready to get into my car, I think it’s rain. Once I realize what it is, my eyes start to itch, and so I get in my car and drive off.
We get to my friend’s house and set up the crawfish for the boil. The bag is thirty-six pounds of slowly grinding and clicking crawfish, garlic hamburgers, potatoes, vegetables, and beer. There is also a poor small dog with a cast on his back leg, who hobbles around on three good legs and then shivers. Around us, the wind shakes loose the trees’ petals, and they blanket the ground.
Mostly, it’s a good afternoon. Several of us run to get coffee, just as they dump the cooked, red crawfish out onto the picnic tables. When we get back, it’s a massacre, but there are some left. My friend’s boyfriend shows me how to de-shell and eat them. I like them less than I do shrimp–they’re quite a lot of work for very little meat, but good, once you get past their beady eyes and spider-like appearance.
Spring has come in Atlanta, and I’m hopeful. There are several opportunities coming, I think, and nicer days ahead.
Tonight was actually fun. Homemade pizza (six of them, with various toppings), salad with pretty vegetables, sugar cookies, and beer. After hip hop, which always puts me in a good mood (except for the stupid guy who didnt seem to realize there were other people dancing nearby, including me. He stepped on me twice. Uhh??? There is a mirror. And if I can see myself in it, that means you can also see me. Once I stopped, folded my arms, and waited for the inevitable. Sure enough, he stepped on both of my feet as he wandered blindly back to his spot…). Add MST3K (any one of them), and you have yourself a recipe for a great evening.
Tomorrow, I plan to get up early and start going to Body Works again. It’s been two months. My rib is healed, only paining me when I do something drastic, like sneeze and twist, or choke (I try not to choke on things, normally, but sometimes I’m clumsy and it can’t be avoided). So now that I can officially lift again, I think it’s time to get off my diet of bullshit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and eat some real food. Summer’s coming, right? Gotta get healthy, as someone I knew once would say.
The rest of the day I plan to devote to Fallout and reading, since I am very close to finishing The Motel Life. There are probably a few movies in my collection I’ve neglected to watch, as well. So much to do. How will I ever accomplish it all?
Goodnight 
Dorian Gray was interesting, even though it ended abruptly. Dorian Gray, a very charming and naive young man at the novel’s start, has sat for a famous artist, who in turn paints a portrait of him. The portrait is so beautiful he wishes that it would grow old instead of him. Later, he falls in love with Sibyl Vane, an actress, although when he brings his friends to the play she is in, she is so dreadful that he shuns her. Sibyl kills herself, and when Dorian arrives home, he notices that the portrait has subtley changed to reflect his own cruelty. Subsequently and under the influence of Lord Henry, Dorian begins to dabble in all sorts of vices, and as he does so, the portrait becomes more and more ugly and deformed while Dorian himself retains his youth.
As the book progresses, we see Dorian descend further into debauchery, the portrait continually changing to reflect his sins; the ending was possibly the only thing that could have happened. Dorian got what he deserved, and died a monster.
I have to say I enjoyed it, even though I usually find Victorian novels difficult to sit through. This had a lot of Victorian overtones, but also had its share of so-called controversy (controversy which isn’t so much controversy now, but would have been back then), in its somewhat blatant homoerotic overtones. And I think Oscar Wilde himself was scandalized by this in his own life, and so it’s interesting that it appears here, as well.
All in all, it’s definitely worth reading. Also, I hear they’re making another version off it, called just Dorian Gray and starring Colin Firth and Ben Barnes. May have to go see it…
So, next on my list are these:
I may be able to finish Vlauntin’s book before the end of the month, but I didn’t want to include it on March’s list, just in case.
And there are only three right now, because while White Oleander isn’t that long, Game of Thrones is. This time I want to go slow with the book and take some character notes. My cousin is in the midst of Clash of Kings and I can’t talk to him about things because I can’t remember what’s happening with what character. It’s killing me. So now I am going to re-commit to this series and enjoy every second of it.
Monday I’ll find out a few things. If they go as I hope they will, I’ll let you know.
Tonight was an interesting night.
I’m writing while the room is spinning, a bit, so you’ll have to forget odd errors here and there.
Things:
Life could be better. It could be worse. Sometimes when I feel certain things fiercely, I remind myself that it’s for the best, that I’m better off, & etcetera. Tonight was one of those nights where it worked, and will hopefully continue to work in the future.
The Girls was sad. Melancholy and beautiful, sometimes I forgot I was reading a work of fiction and thought instead that I was reading a memoir. It was moving, the switching in points of view refreshing between each bout of raw memories from these girls. A pretty good book, and an interesting concept.
Anyway, now onto Dorian Gray. I don’t feel very motivated to read it, but then again, I don’t feel motivated to do much these days. At the very least, now I’m used to reading before bed, the prospect of another empty day ahead of me freeing me to do what I want until late into the night.
Yesterday, I lugged three bags and a tripod out of my boss’ car, and up a couple blocks to the building that houses five floors of classrooms in downtown Atlanta (or is it six floors?). As we stood waiting on a street corner for the light to turn, I looked up and around me, neck swiveling, at the buildings, lit by the evening sun. I look ridiculous, like a tourist, and I catch an odd glance from my boss after I slip my camera back into my bag.
I was so surprised at myself just now for writing something that is almost all fictional that I had to stop and mention it here where someone may read it and perhaps be proud of me.
Or not, because now I’m stalling. The knowledge that I was beginning to write a story has brought back the jitters and nervousness and fear of failure, so that progress is halted. Story of my life.
Well, goodnight!
Tonight as I drove back from Trader Joe’s and the gym, every single light on Ponce de Leon was green. I cruised smoothly from midtown into Decatur with the windows down.
It’s hard to be mad at the world when the weather is perfect, when the skies are clear, when the music is coming from the stereo and every song seems exactly right for the moment.