I make a batch of waffle batter and it lasts me for a week of breakfasts. It storms every day. Hannah and I go to the pool.
Our livingroom window looks down onto the porch steps of the church across the alley. St. Faith's Anglican, where I went with my family until I stopped going to church when I was fifteen. The past two mornings, a woman in her forties has been sitting there, crying and screaming and cursing someone. She's tall, with short, professionally-coloured hair, long legs, bracelets, earrings, and a big belly. She's not talking into a phone. She's wailing and screaming herself hoarse with rage. Sometimes she gets quiet and sits in the sun for a few minutes, then she starts up again. She's unselfconscious about pausing mid-cry to light a cigarette. She picks up where she left off. She says she won't be made a fool of, that you can go fuck yourself, that you're a fucking liar and she's sick of it. At intervals she lifts up her shirt to scratch her stomach. Yesterday around 4, she finally stood up, put on a long coat even though it was blazing hot, and walked off down the sidewalk. This morning she's back. I haven's seen her eat anything.
I get a job at the bar that's kept me sane two summers running. I've written poems there, been on countless dates there, gotten drunk alone there, read most of Infinite Jest there. I've got 100 pages to go. I start tonight.
I finish my first big book-editing project, and gosh I'm proud of the finished product. I listen to Amanda Bergman's new record about twenty times and cry.
Hannah and I start designing a new chapbook together. Our main sources of inspiration are paperbacks printed in the 70s and 80s, a copy of Cinema Scope, and a box of peppermint Nutratea. Flat, saturated colours, black and white on colour, right angles, slab-serif fonts. I'm relieved that Hannah picks up on what I have no words to describe when I present her with the collection of print material and say I want our book to look like "this."