but we still believe in God
—Erin L. Shafkind (caption to her photograph "They Work Really Hard")
Spent the morning with The Dismemberment Plan and Jane Monheit. The way she sings, I'm sure she loves me.
Today's line at Victrola stretches to the front door. There's relative quiet in my corner: surrounded by single people reading, studying, and sketching. Jerry Diamond plays the same Saturday tunes on the piano. A bit father away, emphatic tones of unengaging righteous indignation hint at an all-too-common style of conversation. How does the "listening" party keep her eyes from rolling all the way back inside her head from sheer boredom? Such was my limitation in academia.
Had a silly anxiety dream about work last night, as if that should be the most pressing thing on my psyche. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." There will be office time today, nothing too taxing. I'm as far behind as ever, but unwilling to be insane about it.
Meg called, wants to be social. I don't, but should. I'm an ass sometimes.
Need to do laundry. Want my laundry to simply be done.
Feeling conflicted, distant from God, "a double-minded man, unstable in all he does" (James 1:8). You'd think I'd know better, or do better. Glad my salvation isn't up to me. Yet there's work to be done in my life and I'm dragging my heels. I'm weak. Why don't I trust enough to wait on/hope in Him? Remembering last night's conversation– she hit the nail on the head.
The studying woman in front of me wears cutoff corduroys and has an unshaven patch on her lower left leg. Just a strip, like some kind of experimental hair garden (a phrase which would also be a good name for a band). Victrola's six-inch-thick mother dictionary sits to her right. The plate she eats from matches a set in my cupboard.
I miss parts of my life I never had.