Yes, I do see the pathos

It is true, the fact that I am excited about something, and I don't have a single real person to call up and tell about something as trivially exciting as the unfolding of a new novel, the conception, really, in which it is both imbued with that spark of life, and bafflingly unfolds itself in mitotic proliferation, mirror images that split themselves, not shattered, but refracted into a thousand pieces.

I don't have a friend to tell, (that is, I do have friends, but not with whom to talk about these things) so I write it down here, in this strangely intimate, private place, that purports to be public, but because of sheer lack of interest is just as private as if it were for my eyes only. And still it isn't, because there is this need to tell, the need to feel like there might be, could be, possibly a positive end to the negative chare, a circuit completed, magnetism, or zen.

There won't be, but that hardly matters, what matters is the soothing in the telling, the need that wells up in the chest. I can feel it coming like a slow orgasm, the deep kind that build from your center, not the quick ones that are pure surface, and the names begin to auto(bio)graph themselves, and I run home, to my computer whose F8 key the %^@@&^ cat destroyed last night in a fit of fiendishness, and tell no one, because I think it might happen. I might be able to do this, this outline thing, where I lay out certain plot points, and birth a few characters, sketch them in charcoal, blend away their edges and then let them interact in strange and unexpected ways. I have never written this way, and I don't know it will work, but is so exciting that suddenly there are twists and bumps (literally) in the road that make the new path ultimately clearer, more involved, less linear. Lines cross one another, forming planes, these planes slice eachother, they wrinkle or shatter, they double one another in complexity, richness. There are overtones and undertones, and reverberating sounds that augment one anothers amplitude.

And now, my kitchen calls, to make Lasagna, I always crave lasagna when cooking for men, don't ask why, and I suddenly remember that meal, that fateful strangely alligned meal for the film-maker guy that I picked up (or he picked me up?) in a friendly sort of collection and came to my house and J.J. and M. and Clayton were all there, and I managed to find the proper ingredients, or an approximation of them from the Superama, on Río Churubusco, although the ricotta was not what I wanted, and mozzarella, nearly indestinguishable from other purported cheeses. And how the film-maker and I went to Coyoacán and I danced in a long skirt and sandals to the beat of the eternal drummers, in the plaza of Coyotes, where I. and I. watched the concheros dance just two months ago, and I laugh at myself because I was followed around the supermarket, the one I never go to, by a man that meant to seem casual, if a penetrating stare and then standing over one's shoulder while she searches futilely for decent curry in the spice aisle could be construed as casual, but the story stops there, because I skipped down the aisle in search of other products and he went on to, one must presume, continue his life. And there are stories, everywhere there are stories, and there are scenes to be imagined, and I feel suddenly fertile, fecund, ripe with life, but not that sort of life, and the pain has gone away, briefly, and the disappointment doesn't hurt so much, and I plan a girl-trip to Mexico for the summer and now, now, now, must really return to the house and its calls for attention, litter to be removed, food to be stored and then prepared. I must go, I will, and besides, no one else is here.