Tired. So tired.
Maybe I’m still low on Vitamin D. I have a prescription, you know. I’m sickly. I got tested–without meaning to, but my doctors always know what’s best for me–and where the normal range is 30-100 units of said vitamin, I had 8. That’s why I’m a McRicketts, because I have no Vitamin D. So I take 30,000 goddamned units in a pill once a week. I guess it tucks itself behind my fucking liver or something.
“Here’s some nail polish. Want to borrow it?”
“Nail polish,” she repeated.
“It changes color in the sunlight.” She held her hands out so the other woman could see the color. Straight out in front of her, as if she were flying.
“Nail polish,” she said again. She turned the bottle over in her hands. Superhero was the name on the sticker. She thought of all the different names for nail polish. Nail lacquer. Nail paint. Nail varnish.
“I’ll let you think about it. A day, two days. You can borrow it as long as you want.”
She walked off and the woman was left with the bottle. Lacquer. Varnish. Paint. Polish. She didn’t want to borrow it. She could just leave it here and pretend she forgot to take it home.
It’s been like that since I finished it. I’m in the third person. So exhausting. I’m not nearly half the writer he was at my age, even.
I’ve read a lot of DeLillo. That’s not a boast, or saying that I’m really smart or something. (I’m also quite aware that he’s said to be one of the more overrated authors. I disagree with those people vehemently.) Once upon a time when I should have been going to class, I would get really high and go to the library. So I read a lot of a very few authors. I read everything my school library had. Some of it I even remember. Flannery O’Connor, Don DeLillo, Vladimir Nabokov, Will Self, and Charles Bukowski come to mind as authors I read all the way through those days. Mind you, it took me ten years to finish my undergraduate degree, in part because of this practice, and in part due to the things that led me to act out in this way, but that’s what I did.
I’ve read all his novels except I didn’t finish Libra (gasp! I know. I got bored) and Cosmopolis (I got irritated with the voice, and put it down in my boyfriend’s house, and then we weren’t dating anymore, and I’ve never got around to it again), and I haven’t read all of his plays, except Day Room. I did read Amazons, the book he wrote under a pseudonym.
He used to play more just with language than he did with time, and since he started really playing with time (Underworld), I need to read everything twice before it sticks. But his prose is still beautiful. He’s a careful and elegant writer. I just don’t feel smart enough to talk on it. Too tired. Too full of leaden day-to-day nonsense. Cluttered up with workdays and traffic and dishes and ring around the tub‡. Not free enough of that to be a smarty-pants right now.
(Except: I was driving the other day and all the sudden this one–Point Omega, I mean–was reminding me of Ratner’s Star, and I can’t say why, because I only remember little bits of that one. Was that also in the desert? Maybe that was it. Maybe it was the desert and dialog. Has anyone else read both?)
Fuck, man. I need a room of my own. Nourishment for some lovely brains. Can I put an ad for a patron on Craigslist? Nothing kinky, just an old school, Victorian-age artist’s patron. I write and they support me. Think someone would go for that? Or no can do? Eh, I think it’s a better bet to start playing lotto again.
†Yes, I spell “dialog” the “American” way. I spell “catalog” that way, too. Thanks to the misogynistic, Antisemitic asshole that was Melville (Melvil) Dewey for that simplification of spelling.
‡While George Clinton circa Funkadelic tells me the ring around my bathtub is soul, I remain suspect.