solitude (done up right)

When I lived by myself, one thing I loved to do on the weekend was spend an entire evening watching a film, allowing for multiple disruptions by nosy neighbors, drop-in visits from friends on bikes, long-distance phone calls, smoke breaks, and sudden moments of such clarity about my life and my work that I just had to grab my journal and scribble down my stunning insights. It might sound a little mundane, but I enjoyed the leisurely way the night proceeded and how deeply into my own head I allowed myself to go. There were many nights like this that started around 8pm and the film finished up in the early hours of the morning. I'd stop the film, turn on the lights, and shove the twelve books of cultural theory, the many articles I suddenly realized I needed to look at, my journal with its madly scribbled notes, and the empty bottle of wine out of the way and head off to bed, feeling thoroughly done.

While one cool thing about living with Hank is that the conversations I used to have in my head are now very much externalized, there is a part of me that romanticizes the solitude of my twenties, what I felt was a complete withdrawl from the realm of the social in which I did not have to interact with anyone if I so chose. I feel lucky to live with someone who understands the importance of solitary reading and writing, but it is rare that I find myself truly alone these days. There are at least some hours every day, sure. And there are the days I travel back to see family in the north-east, or when I spend a night or two at a hotel while out of town for a conference, but that is not really the kind of "alone" time I'm remembering. For someone who used to really relish his solitude for so many years, I have been remarkably not-alone for about two and a half years. That's a long time, my friends . . .

The reason I'm bringing all of this up is because Hank is out in east Texas this week, working on Broke. He's been gone since Tuesday, and returns this coming Tuesday. It's the first time I've had more than a couple of hours to myself since we've moved in together, and so I am really enjoying it. (Actually, the first Christmas after we moved in together, Hank spent a couple of days with his family, and so those count as alone days, but it was really very brief, and plus, even though I convinced myself that I was looking forward to weathering the holiday alone, I totally broke down and wept Christmas morning.) I have no plans this weekend, really, except to pick up a film or two for this evening and see what transpires.

(My friend Andrew points out that he has seen all of this in a comic strip somewhere, which is exactly right!)

Updates:

1) The pomegranate has been picked and is sitting in our fruit bowl. I kind of want to wait to open it until Hank returns, but I don't want it to rot. My friend Kayte took a photo of it with her digital camera, so I should be posting that soon.

2) So far, no rat. Hank bleached out the area under the sink and stuffed the holes around the pipes with steel wool. There are boxes of poison distributed throughout the apartment and little baggies in the crawl spaces under the building (but these are not in any place that little green-parented children can get into, I promise!). My trench-composting in the backyard has come to a screeching halt until I can deal with it again and maybe find a way to do it that does not attract vermin. Other than that, I am, sort of unbelievably, suffering from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder since I hallucinate the rat at least once a day, and I have to steel myself before I go into the kitchen and use it like a normal person. Also, I have told every person I know the rat story, and have heard dozens of frightening stories concerning rats in apartments that I did not need to hear. Isn't that terrible?

3) This morning, I found out that a short piece I wrote about Courtney Love is going to be published in special issue of a really kick-ass film studies journal on divas. Applause!!