I watched Beasts of No Nation, and goddamn. I’ve been trying to finish it for three nights now. It was intense, and beautiful, and heavy as children in war should be. My life is easy.
I am supposed to spend the afternoon with my niece, but my stomach is unhappy with my festival food choices. I may have to delay by a day. It’s been a turbulent weekend for my body, and having a vegan so close to my mountian diet has ruined me. I have not had this much fry batter in months. I may be sweating grease. Trust me, it’s as sexy as it sounds.
Things have gotten better since last week. I am safe, rekindling with old allies and making new friends. I cannot believe how I live my life without Tina and Gary. Jared and I are doing well together, and are growing in new ways. It’s good for me. He’s good for me. I got to spend an afternoon walking from my old house to Esplanade. The Big Top is gone, but Maiis is not. Some new art lines the streets, but so do all the old familiar things. I stopped by to see my Pa-Pa, and wished I had a more concrete place to visit Ma-Ma.
My mind has been on mythology lately, and I am thinking of my Pa-Pa as Old Man River…
The debate between third person or first person POV has been in the forefront of my mind. I am going to fictionalize the memoir project. It has been decided! But now I have to settle the point of view issue. Input is welcome.
I have to sleep. My body is complaining at me, and the final battle is about to be waged. My stomach churns and bubbles, a cauldron that the weird sisters might surround. My eyelids droop, heavier each second than they were the last. Will I collapse on the bathroom floor, eyelashes slamming onto my cheekbones, as my laptop idles until battery failure? Or maybe I’ll muster the strength to move back to bed, only to be jarred awake by the sudden realization of extreme saliva levels indicating an immediate trip to the toilet? The exasperated Brittany rakes her poorly polished fingers through her hair.
My nails were orange and black for Halloween and badly need to be repainted. I think for the first time, I feel Steph’s pain. The struggle is real.
I miss my gerbil.