Slept in till 8:30 after going to bed at around ten last night. Sore from two consecutive days at the gym, where I pushed myself hard on Friday.
Found the little composition notebook I’d been copying into my journals (typing notes into the laptop) (the notebook is falling to shreds). Found a poem draft I didn’t remember writing, from August 2010, “Trinkets for a Shaman’s Neckace.” It’s not too bad. How many more are scattered around here?
Noticed on Growlr last night, as I was falling asleep, that Sebastian is in NYC. I sent him a text: Why is Growlr teasing me by saying you are only three hours away? He responded today: he actually is in NYC, traveling for work, and will be in DC after that. I’m very sorry (again!) that I can’t meet him.
Lunch yesterday at a Mexican place in Danville with Elba, Pat, and Pat’s sister who was visiting from Pittsburgh. A really nice time. Elba drove; we met her at the bank a little after 12:30 (she had a conference call that had run long). She says there may be a teller position at the branch up on 15. She also mentioned something part time, saying just make sure you ask for $12-13 (per hour), and I did not say But I can’t work part time, I can’t leave a full-time job with benefits no matter how awful my current pay. This kind of change terrifies me: leaping without a net. There can be no interruption of income; we have nothing saved to hold us over.
R came downstairs while I was writing in my journal at the dining table, hunched over the page with my glasses off. I didn’t acknowledge him. He went into the kitchen and started washing dishes. I kept writing. I kept stopping to shake the tingling from my cramped hand. He came back into the dining room. “Do you want me to go to Fisher’s for some bacon for breakfast?” I glanced at him—blurry him—with my face set, emotionless. I kept writing. He asked again. I put on my glasses, looked directly at him.
“If you have something to say, go ahead and say it.”
“Don’t you have anything to say?” I asked.
“Well all right then.” I got up. Picked up my journal. Which of course he is going to try to find, to see what I have been writing. Or maybe not, I don’t know. Why hide it? Hasn’t the skin been torn off everything at this point?
Massive fight. Ugly, ugly tears. I threw two shelves of books at him. I broke a cup against the wall. Yeah, that left a mark. We are at the absolute bottom and we have agreed to try to climb out of it together. Feeling more stoic than hopeful. We’ll see.