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stories, mine and yours
Jul. 27th, 2001 12:19 pm"We have got but one life here. It pays, no matter what comes after it, to try and do things, to accomplish things in this life and not merely to have a soft and pleasant time."
-- Theodore Roosevelt
Thinking. Always. There is no end to it ever.
Saw Kiss of the Dragon last night, Jet Li in a well collared black suit with Bruce Lee hair. I love to watch that man move.
Soon I'm going to have to stop staying up til early hours of the morning and sleeping until lunchtime. It's probably annoying to more than just myself. I have 9am classes this semester, and hopefully soon a job.
I want to swim and lay by the pool reading Edith Wharton.
Someone unknown sent me an email this morning, about Wharton and style. A chapter enclosed for your reading pleasure. "Anyway, I get the impression you are a writer, or at least I hope so, because you're good." I wonder if I still can write. I haven't written much the past few years, aside from academic papers and hysterical letters, bad poetry and rambling journal entries. There is of course the vampire romance novel we started as a joke, still lurking in a notebook somewhere.
I miss writing for the paper. I miss the rush, the adrenaline of working under deadline, or editing, of constructing. It's been years and I can still taste it.
Looking at my yearbooks last night, three for three years that seem too long even now. I never did have senior portaits taken. The only one I would save is the middle, 1995-1996. Perhaps the best and ultimately the worst year of my life. I cried last night, something I swore I would never do. But it's not high school nostalgia in the same sense as those boys who remember the last four seconds of their last football game forever. I miss the windowless journalism room, Doc's desk, Doc himself, the desks and counters and spaces. I miss the newspaper staff.
Mostly the the core of sharp tongued, sarcastic boys. Kevin aka Jim Profit, who signed that yearbook in pen even after I spilled coffee on him. John Bryant, who wrote an entire page on imaginary monsters and probably knew everything at that time. I wanted to talk to them last night, the wanting that hurts with sharp edges deep inside.
Enough, enough, enough. Get up and walk away.
Maybe I'll just print out my unknown friend's story and read it by the pool, or on the balcony in the sun. I wonder where this story is going.
-- Theodore Roosevelt
Thinking. Always. There is no end to it ever.
Saw Kiss of the Dragon last night, Jet Li in a well collared black suit with Bruce Lee hair. I love to watch that man move.
Soon I'm going to have to stop staying up til early hours of the morning and sleeping until lunchtime. It's probably annoying to more than just myself. I have 9am classes this semester, and hopefully soon a job.
I want to swim and lay by the pool reading Edith Wharton.
Someone unknown sent me an email this morning, about Wharton and style. A chapter enclosed for your reading pleasure. "Anyway, I get the impression you are a writer, or at least I hope so, because you're good." I wonder if I still can write. I haven't written much the past few years, aside from academic papers and hysterical letters, bad poetry and rambling journal entries. There is of course the vampire romance novel we started as a joke, still lurking in a notebook somewhere.
I miss writing for the paper. I miss the rush, the adrenaline of working under deadline, or editing, of constructing. It's been years and I can still taste it.
Looking at my yearbooks last night, three for three years that seem too long even now. I never did have senior portaits taken. The only one I would save is the middle, 1995-1996. Perhaps the best and ultimately the worst year of my life. I cried last night, something I swore I would never do. But it's not high school nostalgia in the same sense as those boys who remember the last four seconds of their last football game forever. I miss the windowless journalism room, Doc's desk, Doc himself, the desks and counters and spaces. I miss the newspaper staff.
Mostly the the core of sharp tongued, sarcastic boys. Kevin aka Jim Profit, who signed that yearbook in pen even after I spilled coffee on him. John Bryant, who wrote an entire page on imaginary monsters and probably knew everything at that time. I wanted to talk to them last night, the wanting that hurts with sharp edges deep inside.
Enough, enough, enough. Get up and walk away.
Maybe I'll just print out my unknown friend's story and read it by the pool, or on the balcony in the sun. I wonder where this story is going.
