back in those days, writing was as sure as air - easy to reach and unending.
from the archives, august 5, 2005:
I have my hair braided into twin braids and a new shirt on, and I am laughing as I pull into the driveway, not knowing what to expect, but in ten minutes we are kissing in the kitchen and it's as though june and july forgot to exist. we have unbelievable chicken ('why is it unbelievable?' I ask. 'because that's what I decided to call it,' he answers) and squash and watermelon margaritas and I sit on the kitchen counter, telling stories. he says, you are writing the novel! this is it! and I shake my head impatiently, saying that I'm not writing anything and that's the problem. but he shakes his head and says, this is it, it's just not written; I am thankful for this, his saying it.
we get stoned and drunk and have sex on the dining room floor. the chicken really is unbelievable.