boppin' beats, beekeeping, and big game.

John gave me an Elliot Smith CD for Christmas, which I've been listening to this morning and yesterday. He looks a little like Alan Rickman and sounds a little like Paul McCartney. John explained to me, sitting by the tree, emptied red stocking in my lap, that he'd heard about him on NPR. That the music sounded like something I'd listen to...and that the guy killed himself last year. In fact, this album didn't come out until after his death.

And John was right to get it. It does sound like something I'd listen to...though I feel barred from being a fan, per se. I've missed that boat. Like now his death is linked to his being in my brain, clouding the real view.

And there's something odd about having his music stuck in my head. Why is it different with music? I little birdie told me the new, restored version of Ariel is waiting for me to open on Wednesday (birthday). And yet, reading those poems of Sylvia Plath could there be something more personal? will not have the same feeling.

And. Of course. The question arises:

Why do I gravitate to people who killed themselves?

After all, I also got a book about Hemingway for Christmas. And we all know my weird fascination with him.

Is it their power? Their potency? Their utilization of choice?

Oh, probably not. The music is intoxicating. As are the personas of people who, for one reason or another, have become larger than life. Well, literarily speaking anyway. I'm not much interested in Kurt Cobain. Afraid I missed that boat, too.

holiday recap.

Christmas. Rush.

Retail on Christmas Eve. And yet, still I like my job, which I've been told, has become permanent. This is good news. I like the idea of "free" insurance. Daily striving to make my life more Canadian.

I toot-tooted my French Horn (a.k.a. Freedom Horn, a.k.a. American Noisemaker: Another Way We Stick It To 'Em) at my uncle and aunt's Christmas Day dinner party. They served a delicious chicken fetticini. But it was no honey-baked ham. Or green bean casserole.

There were Santa hats, carols by the piano, everything but the snow. Which seems to have taken up residence in Tennessee.



On Christmas Eve, we drove around and looked at Christmas lights strung around palm trees. And I struggled with myself to imagine "the first Christmas" and how palm trees are actually much more Christmas-appropriate than store-bought, pre-shaped Douglas firs.

Every now and then I get a wanderin' urge to see
Maybe California, maybe Tinsel Town's for me
There's a parade there, we'd have it made there
Bring home a tan for New Year's Eve

My sister-in-law got here tonight. John got a special "my sister's a minor" pass to go back to the gate to meet her. I had to wait out by baggage claim, which was okay, because I didn't have to go through security and take off my shoes. (Though, I must say, I do have on nice socks today.)

Standing there looking over the barrier by the luggage carrousels, watching people hug and lug around luggage, I started to wonder if the people waiting beside me were from Nashville, where Misty's plane came from. As people filtered in from the gates, I felt this weird affinity for them, having just come from "my home land." Probably the only time in my life I'll every feel an affinity for people from Providence, which is where the plane came from before it picked up Misty in Nashville.

So. Back to work today. Back to normal life, except that we have company and my birthday is Wednesday. The Christmas rush is over and the gift certificates have already started to resurface.

Disneyland or the beach tomorrow, depending on how cold it is.

too tired to write a better entry.

Last night John and I went into Hollywood and saw Blue in Green, a movie that one of the girls I work with acted in and helped edit. It got great (well-deserved) reviews. Overall, a really good time.

I have a lot going through my head right now, but I don't feel quite coherent enough to write it all out. I'm feeling anxious, expectant. Tired. Quite tired.

the scent of memory.

I've been typing like a fiend. Freelance typist. That's me. I'm seeing.

This morning, at work, my manager (the Sunday manager, incidentally, is my favorite) sent me next door to the AMPM for milk and a couple copies of the Times. And as I walked outside, the weather was fantastic. It was like an LA postcard out there. And the cars drove by. And the mountains stuck up above the buildings in front of me. And then I smelled it.

There's a quality in the air that I only smell occasionally, but that I remember smelling every time I went into my grandparents' backyard when I would visit as a kid. And when I've smelled it in other cities (Nashville, Bowling Green, Atlanta, anywhere with lots of cars in one place, basically), I always think mmm, LA.

And it's really strange to get all nostalgic about a place when you're actually there. It's like I forgot. Maybe I did.

Dude. I gotta go to the beach.

or just a stirring in my soul.

I think there's something about being sick that sort of...heightens my brain. Everything swirls around like marble. I think in collage. A photo smashed against a memory of same event, pasted to the image of a face.

I've been reading Angelina, a blog, quite honestly, not everyone can appreciate. Some people will be tripped up by the numerous references to drugs and alcohol...and her frequent use of "the curse words." I, however, am not of that mind. I'm not sure why I felt the need for a disclaimer... Oh, wait, yes, I am. I'm little Miss P.G. And no, I do not mean the band. You can't but love them. I get the impression that her brain constantly works like mine does when I'm sick. Or maybe it's that she's high. Wink.

I talked to Sara for, like, two hours last night. Good. Stuff. [It's weird how being "the married one" of my friends (except for my sister, who doesn't count...because she's my sister and she's always done everything before I do it) makes me feel like I act somehow knowledgeable. And boy do I hate that. It's like, I hear myself saying things like, When You Meet The One... And a little bomb goes off in my head. It's saying: You sound like a know-it-all married lady. And you, dear Mrs. Hill, do not want to be That Lady. Logically, I know I don't feel more knowledgeable. Logically, I feel?] Sara Sara Sara. Whose new friends I have not met. Whose world has shifted. We shared that moment. That space. Pangea. And I feel... What do I feel? I would think I'd be jealous. But I'm not. As though, perhaps, I've outgrown that. Or am just that secure. Because, let's face it, the fact that she calls me up and we talk for two hours is a testament in and of itself, yes? There was a "two roads diverge in a wood" moment. I'm delighted, Mr. Frost, that we chose your route.

All that family I saw this weekend. I think I'm still processing it. I saw my cousin for the first time since she was what? Nine years old? And now she's in high school. And she's heard of bands and movies. And she knows things. And when she smiled I remembered her stick-straight blonde hair of old, her bigger-than-you'd-expect-from-a-four-year-old laugh, the way she called my cousin "Mother," curling up in a chair with her on my lap and telling her the story of Rapunzel... Not that she would remember any of this. I don't really remember being 4. As old as my oldest nephew is now. Only I am not there to tell him about Rapunzel.

And my other cousin that's pretty much the same age. I've seen her more often. And yet, I'm still constantly surprised each time that she's not still wearing bright pink leggings. Instead, she's this beautiful girl who wears clothes from stores that sell clothes I'd have to diet three years straight to wear. I wore clothes from the same stores when I was her age. Only I didn't really pull it off right.

Never having been what you might call fashionable.

When I see their faces, I don't see a time line. I see all time at once. Is this what it means to get older? Does my mother look at me talking about my husband and see me tying the kitchen chairs together with red string? And the reason I did that seems so far away now. Do childhood motives have to slip into the background? And then I'll smell a box of crayons. And everything will make sense again.

Pictures soon?

a nothe ith all thtuffy.

So. This week I met two celebrities at work, nearly my etire family came to LA and left, and I caught a mind-numbingly bad cold.

My parents brought out (pretty much) the rest of our belongings, including my car, which apparently still has a problem (or perhaps a new one) with the transmission. The apartment is full now. Complete with Christmas trees. Trees. Plural. Five fake ones throughout the apartment that take up less space than one real one would. Hopefully I'll have pictures soon.

I'd write more...but my head feels...fuzzy.