Wednesday, Jun. 09, 2004 - 12:29 p.m.
Oh, hi...itís just little unemployed me. I have spent the last several days reading about bicycles and polishing chrome, forming something of an obsession. My table and floor are covered with newspapers, rubber gloves, wrenches, and bits of steel wool, I have diagrams of which screws and bolts go where, and there is grease under my nails. But I suppose Iím not ready to be a bike hobbyist just yet, because when I went to the bike shop yesterday to buy a tube for my front tire, the clerk looked at me with pity when I asked for a valve cap as well. "It comes with the tube," he said.
I am stalling on a number of fronts. Iíve been asked to send a resume to a press in Charleston; I would like this job, but I would like also to continue living an eight-minute drive from L, not a two-hour one. Two hours is nothing, I know; couples live much farther away from each other. And I like Charleston. But I love Columbia. Itís unaccountable; Iíd never want to get old here or live in this town permanently, but I do have a pretty solid life here.
As always happens when Iím between jobs, little projects are swarming around my head. I want to restore lamps, collect bicycles, start about eighteen different side projects with every musician in town, knit 1960s wool dresses, train to hike the AT, start a zine again, finish all the one-paragraph short stories cluttering up my hard drive, and drive to New York, where I have never been. I am not short on ideas, but I canít fix on one for long enough to consider logically how I might begin it. So I scrub at my bike, read your blogs, play with the cat, and go for long walks.
I think Iíll go for one right now.
I did. I got rained on, and I found the leather and velvet case of some mystery instrument. Inside were electrical cords.
Here is The Measureís Official Fetish-Related Search String of the Week: Submerged High Heels. I am result #29.