My dear,
It has been too long. Since last I wrote the oceans rose, the flowers ebbed, and I have carried plates up to my elbows, wishing they, the elbows, were perfectly formed titanium bands that were capable of carrying that many plates without inflicting carpal tunnel on my wrists.
It has been too long, but the Red Sox are barely in first place and Manny is simply waiting to strike. I think about coffee now, something that bothers me. I used to have a box score and a cup of coffee. Now I have Sidamo natural and the Mariners as my closest realities.
Since I wrote I have met my sister on real terms, introduced a girl to my parents, ridden the bus more than I would like to say and killed hundreds of god loving Americans with my eyes. Maybe I have made friends too.
Since I wrote I have moved my bedroom.
I have a bedroom.
I have shaved my head.
A customer asks why.
"Whitman was into Phrenology." And I walk away.
Three weeks later, same customer tells me this doesn't make sense, and I explain why it does. He asks if I am a writer and I say "no, I used to write. I'm too happy now to have anything to say. Maybe soon, I just hope that she is still in my life."
The reality is that I learned a lesson early on. No one is a "writer," but some people write. For those of you who have expressed concern, I am still me and I still write. but right now, that means something different again. It's nice to find someone who touches my head.
It has been too long, but the Red Sox are barely in first place and Manny is simply waiting to strike. I think about coffee now, something that bothers me. I used to have a box score and a cup of coffee. Now I have Sidamo natural and the Mariners as my closest realities.
Since I wrote I have met my sister on real terms, introduced a girl to my parents, ridden the bus more than I would like to say and killed hundreds of god loving Americans with my eyes. Maybe I have made friends too.
Since I wrote I have moved my bedroom.
I have a bedroom.
I have shaved my head.
A customer asks why.
"Whitman was into Phrenology." And I walk away.
Three weeks later, same customer tells me this doesn't make sense, and I explain why it does. He asks if I am a writer and I say "no, I used to write. I'm too happy now to have anything to say. Maybe soon, I just hope that she is still in my life."
The reality is that I learned a lesson early on. No one is a "writer," but some people write. For those of you who have expressed concern, I am still me and I still write. but right now, that means something different again. It's nice to find someone who touches my head.
posted by Jassmond at 12:33 AM
2 Comments:
Whitman liked The Roots? Who knew.
There has to be some bad joke about hair dyeing here.
On a different note, have you ever played with the little wheelchair-bound person next to the word verification field? I wish I had some acid.
Post a Comment
<< Home