Last year I committed to spending more time at the beach. AND I DID.
My priorities and my visions of normalcy and success shifted with every minute I spent at the shoreline.
My intention was to continue regular beach visits in 2019 — multiple times every week — but so far this year … I haven’t gone much.
Today I didn’t even want to leave the house. Like most days this month. February is the worst month of winter in Washington (even without the snow that piled up last week); even though the days are getting longer, it’s not nearly enough sunlight after months of reduced daylight hours. It feels like darkness falls way too soon every day.
But I had to get one of Delia’s checks in the bank. It seemed like a waste of gas and putting-on-clothes to turn right back around and go home, so I made myself go to the beach, telling myself that I could just sit in the car and read. Just GO. Just GET there.
And there it was … proof that THE BEACH IS FOR ME, written like a personalized welcome mat:
Without planning it, the tide is often low when I get there. Especially on days like today when I had to ease myself into just the idea of being upright.
Funny coincidence: last night I read a story featuring sandwriting that was also like a personal bridge, but between where I picture the author Emma Donoghue and here in the Pacific Northwest. Starting out reading Slammerkin and The Sealed Letter, she has always seemed SO across-the-pond and decades and centuries ago from where I be, but in Touchy Subjects there she is writing about JESUS and TACOMA and the word COCKSUCKERS in the sand.
So far this book is full of stories I would never have imagined her writing, but I was totally surprised by Room coming from her, too. But maybe she was just making fun of us for that big JESUS CARES ABOUT YOU sign you can see from the freeway that you can imagine was an inspiration for it. It makes me miss Tacoma, actually. Lots of things make me miss Tacoma. But then I go to the beach here and don’t give Tacoma another thought.
Anyhoo … I had very tender feelings for “The Man Who Wrote on Beaches” when I read it last night.
“…he had a home with a view of Puget Sound and a good job and a great collection of German steins and a lot of laughs. Above all, he had Margaret, who was twice what he deserved.”
The older I get and resign myself to being My Authentic Self, I have to accept that even though I’m capitalizing those words like I’m in on the ridiculous joke of myself, I’m honestly NOT joking. I’m earnest and can say with my whole heart that I love The Man Who Wrote on Beaches. With recognition, relief that I haven’t taken it QUITE that far (but only because I got the idea of asking Jesus into my heart out of my system as a teenager), forgiveness … and no measurable amount of irony.
One of the reasons why I need no-device / no internet days is because I CAN’T STAND IT WHEN PEOPLE SAY SHITTY THINGS TO/ABOUT MADONNA on Instagram. I fucking can’t hack it. It epitomizes everything that’s wrong with the internet, the way everything has been turned upside down and power has been given to the people for evil instead of good errrr fighting REAL evil or using your voice for something useful. Whatever. Nobody should ever get to vandalize MADONNA with insults in such a live pile-it-on manner. It wounds me. It really does.
I also realize . . . I should probably just unfollow Madonna because I don’t really need to see that much Madonna in my timeline anyway. And legit criticisms would be one thing, but just stupid ugly bullshit . . . what? I just do not believe in unmoderated comments.
- severely blue winter sky
- long phone call with the IRS
- being a shitty GWC (“guy” with camera) who hasn’t gotten images and videos back to guys she shot
- a self-pitying fear-riddled phone call (mostly about money) to my wife
- ordered bluetooth keyboard so maybe I can text people more efficiently when I’m trying to fucking work, so they will think I’m a nice person and I can be part of the modern human race without sacrificing THE SPEEDY AND COHERENT FURY OF MY TYPING SKILLS
- did some planning for weekend visit from nephews, trying to figure out how to make them recognize and love Moog synthesizers (to the point where they will not only endure, but ENJOY this thing I want to go to on Saturday, which could totally backfire on me if they end up being the ones who want to stay and hear something that makes them feel like they are “inside a purring cat” while I might want to run outside screaming)
- mulling over things in my unpublished audio and blog archives which made me burst into laughter at my ridiculousness and vocal fry
- tits swelling up and sore from what is probably just PMS
- wrote email to support over three problems in goal-tracking app that I desperately need (haha) to turn over new well-disciplined leaves of health and prosperity
- my pussy feels weerd
I also posted on Goodreads, like this about the book I finished yesterday:
The End of Everything by Megan Abbott
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Four stars because of the taboo stuff and other intensely sticky stuff, but I kind of got tired of everything being bone-deep and blood-thick. I’m not super duper in love with some elements of style in this and Dare Me, but I would read them a billion times anyway and anything Megan Abbott writes. To the point where now that I’m done with this book, NOTHING ELSE BUT MORE MEGAN ABBOTT WILL DO. Maybe I take her more seriously than I should. Which is a problem all of her characters have. With everything. Which I love.
View all my reviews
I’m trying to figure out what to read next that I will actually finish. I want to read the latest Sarah Waters, but after The Little Stranger I’m very fucking reluctant to dip my toes into ANOTHER one where reviewers urge you to have patience and it will get better. I don’t know if I have it in me. If I pick up a book for pleasure, I want it to be fucking pleasurable. Not a test of my patience.
Oh my god that’s probably what everybody feels like when they try to “cum” to my site. Sorry folks!
Now that winter is over and sunlight is pouring into our downstairs, Delia moved our bed (just a mattress) back upstairs to our sleeping alcove and set the nightshot handycam back up for our members:
This handycam has served us well for over a decade
Bloop! Reading naked in bed
JOIN to catch us at home on our voyeur cams :)
Yeah, I actually only took my clothes off specifically to make these nudie pics of the day . . . otherwise I like my torso to be snug and cozy while I’m reading . . . unless it’s a really warm summer day.
I’ve got a cold, it’s a three day weekend, it’s a rainy gusty winter day . . . so it’s a perfect time to FINALLY read Game of Thrones, right? So we can finally watch the tv show? So I won’t keep shushing my sister when she tries to talk about it / spoil it for me? To which she responds with total confusion, You still haven’t read the books? Why don’t you just read it, Trixie?
I don’t know, sister . . . maybe because it’s FIVE BILLION PAGES LONG?!?!? Which is awesome, but still . . . no small feat to accomplish. Especially considering I haven’t been reading much at all.
I thought it was great and easy to have yearly goals to read as many books as I am years old, but I couldn’t do it last year. I told myself it would make me feel good to set an easily-measurable goal to do something I like (reading for pleasure) and am good at (reading fast), but it felt like a waste of time / just wasn’t important or desirable to me. My own life has been interesting and dramatic enough on its own.
Whatever, though. It’s a new year so maybe I’ll try this again. 41 books in ’14? I met my goal in 2012 so maybe there’s hope for me.