I'm not at work today. La la la.

Happiness, however, remains elusive. Reason? I have a FUCKING COLD SORE. There is nothing in this universe that pisses me off more than this nasty little viral outbreak. It makes me feel like shit and I can't bear to look into a mirror because I have this disgusting deformity on my face. I also can't bear not to look into the mirror five hundred gazillion times a day when the cold sore has come because I must constantly monitor its progress. Right now? Ew. It's gross and painful and puts me in a sour mood.

And everything should be good and wonderful, too. Excepting class tonight, I have no work until next week. My lovely friend who I've not seen in a year at least, Brittania is coming. She's beginning the trek up from Florida this very evening and will arrive tomorrow in the early afternoon. Her buddy Justin will fly in from the big city (The Big City being NYC) tomorrow in the later afternoon. We will all drink and be merry. But this fucking horrible cold sore. Blugh.

I have much work to do in preparation--cleaning and laundering mostly. I'll be happy to have a livable house for once. Last night Buddy Black went home. We miss him. Frances and Jeff showed up with the big old nasty egg/woman/ovary/round round round sculpture in tow (and it just cracked me up to think of seeing them on the highway, having to drive the big old truck with a trailor all for that mess) and my how I dig those two. I was embarrassed about the state of my house, but not so embarrassed because I trust them. Seeing them unexpectedly is like a pull on a tall glass of water when you didn't know how thirsty you were.

On my lunch break yesterday I popped into the museum where the art on paper exhibit is on display. I had to hunt around for Jeff's piece. It was all secret in a corner and it made me so happy that of course it was all secret in a corner, in the most secret corner in the wide open room. That's the very corner I would hide in if I could. There was a only two other people in the vast open room when I was there, a couple, and the woman was talking in that rarified art talking way, and I was moving my head all up and down Jeff's paper and felt like I was part of a great quiet in the corner. I also spied Frances's buddy's Eliot's (whoa lots and lots of possessives, eh?) piece and was bowled over. I don't feel like I have the vocabulary to talk about either one of em--which is stupid, I know, because it's that's the very thing that drives me crazy about poetry and people feeling like they don't get it and so can't talk about it. But there it is. I'm run up against my own self-conscious ignorance when it comes to the visual arts.

I remember walking through the Hirshhorn with Loren Bookman when I was 18 and coming upon a sculpture at the top of the long circular walk up and almost falling down it was so real and horrifying. I had nightmares about it. El Greco does the same thing to me. So do Goya's black paintings. So does this (caveat: that last one offends some people. I say, good. It should. No--it's not offensive, that's not what I mean at all. It's horrifing and loving and humane and I can barely stand to look at it because I feel so bare and exposed.)

Ah hell. The day is slipping away from me. Time to soldier on. Laundry is number one on my list. My friends are coming! My friends are coming! Oh and my! Scott's updating his diaryland diary! It's been stagnating, it's been, says diaryland, 12600+ days since last he updated! How exciting! (Although, if you keep up with his livejournal, you've read all these entries. I demand new diaryland exclusive material. I am a demanding friend. Yes.)

Darling me, what did I tell you about the damned exclamation points? No more. You have used your whole year's supply. Exclamation points are banned from your punctuation repertoire until 2003. It's a proclamation. And a promise. Possibly a threat, dependent entirely upon your punctuation sensibility, I suppose. Oh good heavens. Shut up, me. The end.