My Face for the World to See (Part II): The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly a fiction February 21 - 28, 2003

Friday, 28 February 2003 (storm over jupiter) 5:48pm Last night was, for me, one of those quintessential San Francisco evenings. After a self-publishing workshop at Spanganga featuring both Keith Knight and Vale (the latter of whom simply gave me a book which I'd tried to buy from him, saying he doesn't feel right taking my money), I went to the Safeway at Market and Church. As I got out of the car and locked it, I noticed someone approaching me; the fact that he was wearing a black vinyl coat and boots suggested that we'd probably met before. In fact, we do run into each quite often, usually at shows. He was parked a few spots away, and introduced me to his girlfriend. They'd been up for a few days on crystal meth—even if he hadn't said it, it would have been obvious after a few minutes—and were waiting for call from their dealer, presumably to stock up so they could stay up for a few more days. They invited me to join them, and weren't offended when I declined. As we stood at his car talking, someone else approached us. It took me a moment to recognize him from Alvin's party. He asked about K'vetch, saying that he had a piece worked out to read, but that A) he was nervous since it would be his first time reading in public, and B) he didn't want to miss the season premiere of one of his favorite teevee shows. I told him K'vetch is a very supportive to virgins (true), and, more importantly, that his time would be better spent out with people than staying home watching teevee—besides, he could tape it and watch it later. I think I convinced him. Eventually I broke free and actually did my shopping. As I was walking back to the car, a guy who had been walking parallel to me called out, "I don't know you, but you look fantastic in black!" I'd damn well better, since wardrobe-wise, my options are limited. I thanked him for the compliment. Speaking of self-publishing (which I think I was, at at some point), I made a few dozen copies of my chapbook at Kinko's today, and I'm going to Alvin's tomorrow to use his long-reach stapler. I'm so punk rock. Last | Top | Next

Thursday, 27 February 2003 (remote viewer) 10:31am The man was seventy-four years old. He lived a long, full life, and even retired a few years ago after working on television since 1968. (I hadn't seen the show since the late seventies or early eighties, and I'd wager that if you're reading this, you hadn't either.) His death is not tragic, nor did he go before his time. It's natural, and he deserves the rest. It is not a sad/terrible/heartbreaking day in the neighborhood, okay? Last | Top | Next

Wednesday, 26 February 2003 (stoned circular) sometime after midnight Today at the Lumiere we saw Lost in La Mancha, a documentary about Terry Gilliam's failed attempt to make a film of Don Quixote. It fell apart because of a combination of financial troubles (Gilliam couldn't get any American studios interested, so he had to find European investors) and unpredictably bad weather (fuck you, god). A few minutes of footage was shot, and it looked beautiful, but the movie will probably never get made. A sequel to Daredevil was just announced, however. The public, we get what we deserve. Last | Top | Next

Tuesday, 25 February 2003 (weight of water) 7:08pm 10:00am I told them at the counter that my name had changed and held out my ID and SSN card. Did I mention it on my questionnaire? Well, yes, but— Then put it in the basket with the others and take a seat. Okay. I still have a bad feeling that when my time comes, the old name will be used. Oh well. It happens. Always has, always will. On the back page of someone's newspaper, I see a story about the trial of Gwen's killers. I don't want to know about it. I really, really don't want to know about it. 10:17am Gee. Guess what? Since you'll never be able to guess, I'll tell you: they blared my old name on the PA! Woohoo! But the few dozen people in the room hardly noticed when the slightly irritated tranny in the long black skirt went to the counter about fifteen seconds later. Since they hadn't heard their own name, they remained in their own worlds. As I always do. The clerk asked if I was the person in question. I said that I'd indicated on my questionnaire that my name had changed, and I'd tried to tell them at first. The clerk said they hadn't looked at my ID because they weren't sure further proof would be needed. Okay. Fine. I can see that. But why call me up USING MY OLD NAME? D'you think that maybe, just as a courtesy, I'd want my preferred name used? It isn't like going from "Tim" to "Frank," after all. Of course, I didn't say any of those things, since the clerk had raised their voice at someone earlier, and I did not want to get into a pissing match. (It didn't help that I was unfairly pegging them as the sort of ignorant swine who would refer to Gwen as Eddie, and concede that it's a shame that HE got killed just because HE liked to dress as a girl. Because, you know, he hadn't had surgery or anything so calling HIM by the female pronoun would just be confusing.) Their coworker photocopied my ID and SSN card and asked if I'd gone through the court for the name change. I said that I hadn't, but they somewhat grudgingly decided that getting it done through Social Security is good enough for this situation. How generous; I wonder if they would have decided otherwise that I'd have to go by my old name. That would have been bad. There's a middle-aged woman with green hair—well, a large patch of green in her hair, anyway—knitting. That's so cool. 10:40am They just called about three-quarters of the people into another room. It probably would have been faster if they'd read the names of the people who were staying. I'm listening to Nurse With Wound's Soliloquy for Lilith. It has two ideal settings. One is in dimly lit room, preferably, while on hallucinogens. (That's why there has to be some light; you need to be able to see the shadows moving.) The other is where I am right now. Since the room cleared out, I've moved to a comfier seat. Someone left behind a newspaper, and I had to flip it over because of a picture of Gwen. I can't look at that right now. It hurts too much. (I didn't know her, and if she'd lived, we probably would have never met. I don't get weepy every time a little girl falls down a well, the way we're supposed to. I never even shed a single tear over The Great Overshadowing. But this really hits close to home. In another timeline, I was as brave as her at that age, and met a similar fate.) 11:00am Bullet dodged. Free for another year. I had a few hours to kill later in the afternoon, and was fortunate enough to be able to do so watching Rabbit-Proof Fence. Beautiful and heartbreaking. Meanwhile, Americans have spent nearly $70M in leisure money on Daredevil (that's just ticket sales, never mind concessions or transportation), and many have debated it as though it really matters. I suppose it probably does. Last | Top | Next

Monday, 24 February 2003 (unangled plane) 6:09pm Friggin' civic responsibility. I go in for jury duty tomorrow. Gah. I don't know why it annoys me so much. On the plus side, I've been told by a number of people that getting my name switched should be a simple process. Here's to hoping. Last | Top | Next

Sunday, 23 February 2003 (a touch of brimstone) 12:01pm Jennifer Blowdryer's in town, and we'll be seeing her at Alvin's later today. The last time I was sick was when I worked the lobby of her play. Coincidence? I don't think so. 10:28pm It wasn't until about eight this evening, at the convenience store down the street from Alvin's buying Maddy a Vanilla Coke (she loves them, yes she does), that I realized the Grammys were on tonight. I'm almost embarrassed to think that I actually used to care about awards shows. Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 22 February 2003 (cruelty without beauty) sometime after midnight I left the house today. Yay me. Last | Top | Next

Friday, 21 February 2003 (strange thing mystifying) 6:40pm Sick again. An eternal back-burner project which should really be more important is Maddy and I making our wills. Something I want specified in mine is that if I'm murdered, I do not want my killer—or the person who is prosecuted and found guilty, which won't necessarily be the same person—executed. The legality of that is a mystery to me, but I don't want a grandstanding lawyer or politician suggesting that it's what I would have wanted or that it would somehow be necessary for "justice" or "closure." Maddy already knows this, and I'm fairly certain my family does too. I think they'd want my wishes respected. Of course, it may not be up to them. Last | Top | Next