New Journalism

* November *
She knows she should probably sleep now, but now she’s too keyed up. She fancies a shot of juice—Haruki Murakami makes juice drinking sound incredibly sensual and appealing—more so than the literary-favoured whiskeys and wines. She wasn’t at all craving it before, but now juice sounds good. Orange, perhaps, or grape: what she has on hand.

The grape looks good in the fridge and she pulls it out and shakes it thoroughly. The white seal is still on the bottle: it’s not too late to resist midnight temptation and put it back. But no, the espresso mug comes down from the shelf: the blue, of the his-n’-hers Corona crown duo she won at a Mexican festival. Pink stays on the shelf, because baby blue complements the throaty purple.

But grape juice cannot be drunk alone, and the clove cigarette box long ago lay empty. That Hopeful President has banned them in the US, and they don’t seem to exist here. So she munches a rice cake semi-contentedly, and drinks the juice.

Now that the fridge is open, songpyeon and kimbap become irresistible as well. One of the former, two bites of the latter, and a completely unnecessary meal has come full circle.

Well-fit, she returns to the bed. The catch-all, the couch, the recliner, the threadbare, back-aching expanse that takes up a good third of the small room. She lights the candles with an experienced flick of an old Bic lighter and the tuna flavored rice that permeates the skin of her long fingers is masked by the aroma of pumpkin and cinnamon.

Shivering, she closes the big window in the balcony porch and shrugs into the (Japanese?) kimono her best friend had purchased one Christmas in (Chinatown?). It is surprisingly warm.

And she writes.



* January *
It has been writer’s block for days and the sludge once called coffee is cold in the bottom of the cup. Flicks a lighter aimlessly and wanders into the kitchen for lack of better inspiration.

If only as much time was spent engaging in worthwhile activity as is spent eating. Spies the sludge and considers a warm up. The fridge is full, but there is nothing to eat. There is orange juice, unopened, a month-and-a-half old. Doesn’t feel like drinking orange juice, but opens it for lack of better inspiration.

Washes down cold and calming, expiration date 12.25.2009: not long past. Reflects on that day, a happier time. The day of two Christmases.
One good juice deserves another and down it goes.

How’s that coffee holding up?
Yeah, warm it up a little.

Surfing the freelance jobs, those jokes: those worthless time-suckers. Contemplates one assignment, “How to Make a Life-Size Red Panda.” No further details. Too much effort. “How to Start a Tin Sign Business.”

Toggled to Twitter. Quiet, this time of night. Already read today’s headlines. A BBC Big Whig is retiring. Peoples’ Choice Awards are awarding the same five people and shows that have already won everything this year.

Gum is a better investment than food. Gum exercises the jaw; keeps the lips firm and supple and gives that Hollywood line. Costs less than food and staves hunger pangs. Can be refreshed periodically as needed. Relieves stress.

Freelance opportunity: “How to Diet Using Chewing Gum.”

Now the inspiration isn’t lacking. But the fingers hate it. They won’t listen or respond. Sometimes the greatest trouble with the head is its remote distance from the heart. Sometimes the greatest trouble with the heart is its obstinacy.