I have a moment to write but I'm distracted by thoughts of flossing. That's pretty bad. Flossing. Not running barefoot across the field getting stabbed by goldenrod stalks. Not pouring myself a shot of run. Not checking out who the name of the quailing songstress who just came on the radio. No, flossing.
One sunny day last week, I hung out the laundry and a wave of boredom acme over me. I pondered having another baby. Babies cure some types of boredom.
I also made some art yesterday. It was hard to do. It was hard to think of how to express myself. I was inspired after watching The Punk Singer, a film about Kathleen Hanna who was the singer for Bikini Kill, Le Tigre, and The Julie Ruin.
A friend invited me over to her house to watch it. The invitation was charming, so old-fashioned. Like back in the day when a friend got a new 7" and invited you over to listen to it. Or, when friends made elaborate mix tapes for each other. Or, when I used to write letters to my punk rock friends in Saginaw, Atlanta, Long Island.
Letters, long letters! Imagine! Exhortations of love and friendship, complaints about jobs, details about tours and clunky vans. And now, I think about flossing? Alas! Domestication!