Sometimes the lives do catch up with me, and the older ones primly and pointedly whisper responsibility, commitment or just make an obvious hhmph.
I ignore them as long as I can when I’m writing, but the stories they tell do intrigue me. I wish I could just remember the times, and write them down when I am sixteen.
Just heard on the local news–fire departments are going to try to start charging for coming to motor vehicle accidents. This is happening in Ansonia, CT, but evidently fifteen Connecticut towns have signed on to pass legislation for this ability to charge.
We pay taxes for these services. The taxes, they claim, are not enough to pay for a $300,000 firetruck, nor a 250-man crew (Ansonia is a small town of 7,507 households, total population is 18,554). The estimated charge is approximately $375 for the first hour at an accident, and the driver will be charged this amount.
I’ve been a volunteer ambulance EMT in a small town, for which services were never charged. I live in a small town where only last year was there a need to supplement weekends with a paid service because of lack of necessary volunteer personnel. But our taxes pay for these services and we’re gracious enough to offer them to any out-of-towners who unfortunately need them while passing through.
Something like this outrages me. We don’t need another freakin’ baseball field. Put the money into necessary emergency services instead.
Send me no e-mail with Via…, Cia…., or any of those discount drugs listed within the message. Just realized that I may be able to block them in Outlook Express with the Message Rules option. Those are the only spams I get, but I’ve been getting them more often lately, and banning the IP’s just don’t work, either here in weblogland or in e-mailhell.
…and one to go. But it’s the ten-page history exam that’s finished, and I wish I had finished it last night because I would have run it in to campus just to completely feel free of it. The one left to do is fiction for the writing course. If I can drum up any creative spirit whatsoever, that too shall be completed this weekend. Almost free then, but the summer course for the final science requirement stands like bars between me and complete unshacklement of the chains of learning. Thereafter, I shall pick and choose. Literature, Psychology, Philosophy, Computer Graphics, New Media, and of course, fiction writing in whatever courses I can find wherever offered. That’s why the Wesleyan Writers Conference; it will be a semester of learning in a single week. Come Fall, I don’t know where I’ll be, but I’ll be reading and writing and trying to live wherever I am.
Fell asleep and never wrote about
the Second Moroccan Crisis of 1911,
nor found out who must leave Palau.
Full of Eye of Bat, or Eye of Round and gravy
from a committed Thursday night dinner
with a lonely friend.
It used to be Tuesday nights, then Sunday afternoons,
then for a couple weeks, every morning at six a.m.
But late weeknights is when it’s worst, he says,
when he misses her the most.
He’s learned the little things that count,
the things he wished he’d done and yet
she never needed.
I smiled, kissed him goodbye and cried for twenty miles.
Came home with my Thursday night bouquet
and escaped to sleep.
Just got my confirmation of registration for the Wesleyan Writers Conference in June, as well as that of a manuscript consultation with Josip Novakovich. I’m scared.
Almost done with the final history essay exam–much easier to do after that damn book I bitched about for two weeks. Then I need to finish up one or a couple stories for Creative Writing, and that’ll only be tough if the mood doesn’t strike at the right time.
But as soon as the history’s history, I’ma gonna rev up the stereo and let Willie get me high; dance around the barn as the good Lord intended.
Late bloomer, like my daffodils that push their way up through a resistant shell of earth. Planted deep, so much beneath the surface hidden yet strengthening the whole and keeping something for themselves within their core.
Just about done with one of four essays, and have discovered something about myself in the writing of it. I am not of this time.
The reason that I don’t particularly like history is because I seem to have no grasp on time. I find myself, in merely researching the Romanticists, losing track of what century I’m looking at. Who lived when is a mystery. I’m selecting artists more by what I remember them wearing than comprehending where they belong in history. I simply don’t have a clue.
It may also be the reason I feel uncomfortable in this space of both time and place. It is not familiar, and Lord knows, I should have gotten used to it by now. I have no idea if the winter before this just past was heavy with snow, or unusually balmy, nor what was the decade of hippies. I have always been this way, as if the years, eras, centuries, have melded into a book to find by flipping pages.
I get the feeling that I shall someday slip quietly into the clutch of Alzheimers and no one shall be the wiser.
Okay, so all I did was install it and check out their website. But, I mean like, how cool is this:
Uh-oh. Just as I was about to start my history essays the postman delivereth "Still Life."
It’s a crime solving mystery. I don’t think anything will be out to kill me. If I feel however, like killing something myself (highly probable), I can go back to "Silent Hill 2."
(ooh-ooh! It’s rated M and contains Blood and Gore, Intense Violence, Sexual Themes, and Strong Language. Geez, I would have gotten it sooner!)
(I’ve gottagottagotta take a peek at least…)
Where is the stairway to the first floor?
I can’t seem to find it.
While David is happily unwrapping his books, I am indeed in doubt about my feelings towards self publishing my own work.
Being my own best critic (or so I think), having an overwhelming need for validation (personal flaw), and getting rejected every three days or so, I’m thinking more along the lines of "if it’s not good enough for them, then it’s not up to my own standards either and I’m just fooling myself."
Sometimes, wanting something isn’t enough.
Almost got flattened by a barn door this morning. A big old thing on two rollers sliding on a rusted rail. It keeps hopping off the track, one roller at a time; this time both.
I truly almost became…a cartoon character.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology