full of moxie and viscosity

You really must visit Toothpaste for Dinner (courtesy Pete Levno):


and understand how I make it through my days of temping.

Also, don't forget to visit www.emilyroellke.com for tons of excitement.

May I please stress the importance of voting this election. Thank you.

It is very important that we all vote this upcoming election. You can easily get your registration form at www.rockthevote.com if you aren't already registered. If you are, please do not vote for Bush. If for no reason other than wanting someone in office who can speak a full, English-proper sentence ON HIS OWN, please do not vote for Bush. (Also, if you want me to continue living in the United States, let's hope Bush doesn't win.)

Kerry/Edwards 2004, rock on.

This could be really, really good some day:


The movement of her hand was delayed by the needles in every inch. She wanted to feel those needles, let the prick of each drive deeper into her flesh, but with every move, they pulled out just one centimeter more. She cleared the glasses from the table and brought them to the sink. She looked out her kitchen window and saw nothing, or rather, saw only darkness. The water in the sink had been sitting for the duration of dinner, and was once hot. She left her hands on the glasses while she immersed them. Her hands in the water prickled.

He was watching her move the glasses off the table and wondered why she was moving so slowly. It was easy for him to be confused, and the smallest things set his brain into knots. Why did she decide to move so slowly? Even in the quietest of afternoons, he did things with purpose and with decisiveness. How could anyone decide to move slowly? Decisions should include forward thinking and transactions, not meditative, lethargic pauses. He longed to yank her hands from that lukewarm water, just to jolt her out of whatever coma she was in. What are you looking at, Heather? What is outside? I know you don’t see anything out there. I know it’s only darkness. Why do you insist on staring into darkness? It has to be that she has finished with him.

Her hands ran haphazardly across a steak knife in the water. Her eyes reached a lazy angle and stayed there. She could see a gradient in the darkness and let herself rest inside of it. Dark grey and light black. There really is so much out there, she decided. She pictured her garden, terra cotta pots of thin white flowers. Cobblestones. Rolling, uneven grass going into a valley of dark smog, smudging, coloring the sky. Her chair. This chair? The one beside the fence? No, the other chair. The wooden one. She could see the garden so easily in her relaxed eyes. She wondered what caused the gradient in front of her. It was probably the pillowcase hanging from the line, she declared to herself.

What is she looking at? What is it? I should say something, Harold declared. What are you looking at, Heather Marie? What is it? Tell me now, or I am going to rip your hands out of that water and make you tell me. His lips seemed paralyzed. Easy, so easy, she stands there. My rice is hard and nutty, and I do not want it in front of me, Heather. She’s ignoring me. She knows how much I want her to say something and she’s doing it to drive me insane.

“Harold, will you bring me your plate? I think I’ll wash them by hand.”

“Of course, dear.” He brought her his plate and lovingly pushed her hair from her shoulders, kissed her neck. She’s ignoring me, I know it.

Tomorrow, I’ll clean up that back grassy area. I’ll clean it up and make it look nice. Maybe Harold could put up that old hammock.

Heather, for the love of god, put that knife down. Come here to me, tell me what you’re thinking about. Please.

Heart on my sleeve, is the saying, right? At this point I wish I could find my heart. That big, swollen glob of overemoting muscle has disappeared, it seems. I don't mean that I'm unfeeling, but I have yet to really fall for someone this year. Since I moved to Vancouver, really. I haven't gotten vulnerable. Some might say this is a good thing, but let's be honest: it's very unlike me, very uncharacteristic of me, to not have some guy that I'm chasing after. The question is posed: which of our characteristics are favorable and which are unfavorable to keep? I feel like I have spent a long time working on the characteristics that I find to be unfavorable for myself, but maybe I'm working on the wrong ones.

Why haven't I spent more time getting my disorder in order? I still pick, I still scratch, and the original reasons for the picking are gone. That's a problem. Why don't I work on that? Instead I'm so insistent on the novel, reliving and rewriting things that are no longer at the forefront of my emotions. I'm not doubting the importance of the novel, it's still number one on my list of things to do and it's still getting done (SIDE NOTE: I totally sent 50 pages of my manuscript to that agent. Maybe it's bad luck to say it here, because then if I get rejected I'll have to post the rejection. No, it's good. That's what this blog is for. Public humiliation). I'm just wondering if we have to prioritize our crazies or if we can assume that some will take care of themselves.

This blog has gotten away from me, as my original intent was to express my confusion at my lack of a crush. Is this a bad thing?

Gosh, one day in Fresno and I'm already being Frugal, Productive, and Happy.

Hope it continues, eh?

Tomorrow is Los Angeles... call me if you want to see me!

Tomorrow morning early (7 am, thank you Rob Roellke) I will be departing for Fresno. The only regrets I have for the past year are: not hanging out with my family more (Matt and Cara especially) and not going to the Gorge... okay, and maybe not working on my novel as much as I should have. Regardless, I'm moving on, time for Fresno, no real regrets. Time to be a big girl. Sharp and shiny, here comes my newest breaking point. Back to the Motherland.

This may be so redundant, but just when you think you've figured it out, everything changes. Good, bad, different, harder, easier, faster, lustier, more obfuscating, more intense, less intense, shadier, longer, more opaque... it just changes.

I used a key today to clean the interior of my car. A key wrapped in a rag, that's how detailed I was with this cleaning. I Resolved my carpet, and Windexed all of my dash (I'm saving the outer cleaning and window cleaning for the Friday before my parents come). I even cleaned my trunk. I packed my bathroom and threw away lots of crap that I don't need. Now, it's time to take a little nap, and then go back to work, because that is my life. Work, work, work.

Also, this Friday marks my deadline- the 50 pages of the novel have to be sent out by this Friday. Lord Help Me!

We all have to start over sometimes. Sometimes the shots have pulled and the syrup pumped and the milk steamed and you realize the drink was supposed to be decaf. Sometimes you put too many scoops of Enfamil in the bottle. Sometimes the paragraph just needs to start over- your characterization is too slow, too methodical; your lighting is all off. Your rhythm, off. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses and know when to Start Over. Sometimes, there's just no sense in trying to fix what you've done. It's pointless.

Of all of the things I've learned in my life, I think that lesson was the hardest one to learn, and the hardest one to apply. I should have cut Justin out a long, long time before I did. And now, I have to allow myself to drop Mark Small out of my life for good. He won't return my calls and he won't return my emails. There were days (meaning last week) where I would sit up at night and think of ways to talk to him... change my cell number and call him so he'd answer... surprise him at a gig somewhere... go to his house in New York... but the reality of it is, he just doesn't want me in his life anymore, because of things outside of my control. And of all the lessons I've learned, this is the one I need to apply with the most ardor. And pride. So here I am, vowing. I will apply said lesson. I don't want to, because I really want to know him still, have him in my life, talk to him, be a part of all that he is, all of his genius... but I'm moving on. On, on.

Before I move on, though, I have to say, to the world, I AM SORRY, MARK SMALL. FOR WHATEVER IT WAS I DID TO YOU, I AM SORRY. There.

Now, moving on...

something else extremely important:

www.emilyroellke.com


do not miss out. this is great stuff, people.

Getting closer to F-day. The rents bought their ticket, my room is starting to get all packed up, and I'm starting to realize that people here might actually miss me. Weird, isn't it? I don't feel like I really settled in here, so it's hard to imagine that people settled ME into THEIR lives. Then there are the few people who aren't really that upset about my leaving, or choose to not express it, but what can you do? I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else.

In other news, I feel freaking fantastic. I have never been so productive on the novel, so caught up with my bills, so motivated to do what I'm setting out to do, or more secure about who I am and what I'm doing. If I only had a heart! Then I'd be set. Bwaha.