Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,
Jacqui
jacqui

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Tonight life feels pretty sweet.

My man came over. My son had a good time with my ex, his father. He brushed his teeth and went to bed without complaint. The doggies stopped barking. I cleaned the kittens eyes. I gave the ferrets some exercise and Noemi cleaned their cage. The ratties got raisin treats and crackers. I cuddled with Charles Bukowski, the cat not the poet.

Oh that reminds me that I finally saw that show on the sci-fi channel that my friend Monique has been telling me about, with the psychic who asks lots of identifying questions and then tells people things that their crossed over relatives want them to know. I'm such a weird combination of pragmatic/skeptic and hopeful/mystic. I want to believe so badly but I feel like it's just got to be faked somehow. I was heartbroken when I found out that Siegfried and Roy weren't really making that elephant materialize, heh, just kidding.

I took a nap and am feeling a bit better. My DSL is working, thank God. I don't have a dollar in the bank right now but I'm confident that all will be resolved come the morrow. I had a weird dream about a group of actors and a Shakespearean play too. There was this older woman, she was about sixty-five and she was playing Horatio or Yorick with a skull or someone like that, and she did this amazing monologue and afterwards I was trying so hard to catch up with her to compliment her.

I'm really excited about the package community. Apropos of nothing really I'd just like to say how much I love Diane Sawyer, oh and tomorrow night, for the adopted among us, Barbara Walters has a special on ABC at nine called Grown In My Heart, I didn't know she had an adopted daughter, and her name is Jacqueline too. I called my Mom and told her to watch it.

Here's a story I posted in The Book Foole's journal. It was kind of weird so I wanted to share it with you;
A doctor in the elevator of this medical building yesterday got really irate about my not being willing to tell him the name of this book I'm reading, The Fuck Up. It was so weird, he looked at my book, looked at me and said, "What's the name of that book?", and for some stupid reason I got shy, I swear all the time so it must have been his odd intensity, but I just couldn't do it. When he pressed me for an answer I said, "It's called The Screw Up." Well, there was this sweet, little, elderly Asian woman in the elevator with us, and who knows, she might have been offended if I just blurted Fuck out like that so I didn't. Anyway the doctor fellow exploded, "That's not the name of that book! That's not the name of that God Damned book and you know it!!!" It was such a weird exchange. I never saw it coming.

There isn't a room in my house that isn't filled with books. Even the bathrooms have bookcases that are stuffed. I had to remodel to build a library. It has twelve foot ceilings, (it's kind of smallish though, kind of a cube, and I need a ladder badly), and I filled it immediately.

Last night my heartbreaker-of-an-ex called and asked me if I knew of a good used book store, "But not Wilshire Books." Wilshire Books is great for buyers but not for sellers. I felt so hurt because I imagined since he is always poor and scrounging that he was probably looking for a place to sell all of the beautiful books I've given him through the years. I could just imagine him selling these books I have carefully selected for him, books that have deeply personal inscriptions, books I hoped he would have with him throughout his life, so that a part of my love for him would live on in a way, in his history. Oh and it really kills me that after all of the years we were together (16) he is now, at forty years old, finally beginning to read something other than a porn, car or trucker magazine, and he attributes it to the fabulous influence of his "very mature" eighteen year old girlfriend. Life can be so painful sometimes. Of course it can also be utterly beautiful, rich, and filled with meaning.
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