Writing a book makes blogging difficult. I don't want to break any rhythm or routine that I've comfortably developed on my way to writing lots of damn words, but for you, dear reader, I'll make an exception, I'll write a blog.
I just have no idea what it's going to be about just yet.
(Although ideas concerning my holey socks have crossed my mind, as have ones about belligerent, vulgar neighbors who scream at their video game console all damn day. Of course, I wonder if that very neighbor has written a blog about me, his neighbor who screams all day long about the pain and vulnerability of writing so many words into the same Word document.)
I'm visiting Oregon next week. I love that about next week.
I wrote a story set in the future when lights from cities blot out the stars unless you're on a really big hill, and a boy's grandma takes him to the top of a big hill to see the stars for the first time. I called it 'holes on the floor of heaven'. I'm worried it's too religious, but I really love that phrase.
I'm looking for a neat job, and I updated my resume to help me get a neat job. In so doing, I learned that a resume can, in fact, be longer than one page. The digitized world made that possible, apparently. That rocked my resume-writing world, and I've added some of the more boring things I've done and tried to make them sound exquisitely neat, so that I have a better chance at getting at least one neat job.
To exercise and meet people, I've been working at every Kansas City Royals game taking picture after picture of fans. Then some of the fans buy the pictures for ungodly amounts of money. One group bought one hundred dollars worth of pictures. It goes against every penny-pinching ideal my frugal mind has concocted. I mean, I literally stand there as these fans contemplate dropping twenty bucks for a flimsy rectangle of color and think, "Don't buy it, don't buy it, don't buy it."
Sometimes they buy it.
Also, if you take a picture of a man or a group of men sometime soon, watch them closely. I've found many men will look at the camera with all the hardened indifference of a big ol' armadillo until the moment before you take the picture, when big fake smiles will appear on their unhappy faces like saliva from dogs' mouths at chow time. It's one of the funniest, Pavlovianist things I've ever seen.
I just have no idea what it's going to be about just yet.
(Although ideas concerning my holey socks have crossed my mind, as have ones about belligerent, vulgar neighbors who scream at their video game console all damn day. Of course, I wonder if that very neighbor has written a blog about me, his neighbor who screams all day long about the pain and vulnerability of writing so many words into the same Word document.)
I'm visiting Oregon next week. I love that about next week.
I wrote a story set in the future when lights from cities blot out the stars unless you're on a really big hill, and a boy's grandma takes him to the top of a big hill to see the stars for the first time. I called it 'holes on the floor of heaven'. I'm worried it's too religious, but I really love that phrase.
I'm looking for a neat job, and I updated my resume to help me get a neat job. In so doing, I learned that a resume can, in fact, be longer than one page. The digitized world made that possible, apparently. That rocked my resume-writing world, and I've added some of the more boring things I've done and tried to make them sound exquisitely neat, so that I have a better chance at getting at least one neat job.
To exercise and meet people, I've been working at every Kansas City Royals game taking picture after picture of fans. Then some of the fans buy the pictures for ungodly amounts of money. One group bought one hundred dollars worth of pictures. It goes against every penny-pinching ideal my frugal mind has concocted. I mean, I literally stand there as these fans contemplate dropping twenty bucks for a flimsy rectangle of color and think, "Don't buy it, don't buy it, don't buy it."
Sometimes they buy it.
Also, if you take a picture of a man or a group of men sometime soon, watch them closely. I've found many men will look at the camera with all the hardened indifference of a big ol' armadillo until the moment before you take the picture, when big fake smiles will appear on their unhappy faces like saliva from dogs' mouths at chow time. It's one of the funniest, Pavlovianist things I've ever seen.
I'm biking quite far to get to work every day and then biking equally as far to get home each night. I travel up unrelenting hills and across vast swaths of pavemented earth. I do this often, and I'm often in shorts.
And I often look down to see if my calves are getting any bigger.
And they never get bigger.
When I'm biking to work, sometimes a long train will have cars stopped and waiting for minutes and minutes. The line of cars waiting, waiting for the train to pass will stretch incredibly from the tracks and down the street and around a corner and down another street that is separated from view of the tracks by the corner. I'll come to this street separated from view of the tracks by the corner and know that a train is passing because of the ungodly line of cars sitting there, stopped, with owners inside practically vibrating with pent-up impatience.
As I begin zooming alongside this snaking line of stalled cars, I pedal even harder, showing them just how fast I can go when they can't. I smile, sometimes even laugh at their furious impatience caused by a three-minute delay.
Seconds after the train disappears they all pass me as I pedal in vain against their pistons and oil and all that stuff that makes them go so fast.
I recently had my hair in a bun for the first time in my life. Jewels showed me how to do it. It looks nice. She really seems to like it, too, although I'm not used to seeing so little hair jazzing around on top of my head.
I just introduced a new character in my book. He wrestled in community college. He weighs less than a hundred pounds and never won a match. His name is Robert and he hits another, biking character with his big ol' BMW SUV.
I've written more than 35,000 words and my favorite one so far is impossible to pick because each of them means something different and they're all kind of fitting in their own way, like links in a vast chain of import (or, failing that, coherence).
And I often look down to see if my calves are getting any bigger.
And they never get bigger.
When I'm biking to work, sometimes a long train will have cars stopped and waiting for minutes and minutes. The line of cars waiting, waiting for the train to pass will stretch incredibly from the tracks and down the street and around a corner and down another street that is separated from view of the tracks by the corner. I'll come to this street separated from view of the tracks by the corner and know that a train is passing because of the ungodly line of cars sitting there, stopped, with owners inside practically vibrating with pent-up impatience.
As I begin zooming alongside this snaking line of stalled cars, I pedal even harder, showing them just how fast I can go when they can't. I smile, sometimes even laugh at their furious impatience caused by a three-minute delay.
Seconds after the train disappears they all pass me as I pedal in vain against their pistons and oil and all that stuff that makes them go so fast.
I recently had my hair in a bun for the first time in my life. Jewels showed me how to do it. It looks nice. She really seems to like it, too, although I'm not used to seeing so little hair jazzing around on top of my head.
I just introduced a new character in my book. He wrestled in community college. He weighs less than a hundred pounds and never won a match. His name is Robert and he hits another, biking character with his big ol' BMW SUV.
I've written more than 35,000 words and my favorite one so far is impossible to pick because each of them means something different and they're all kind of fitting in their own way, like links in a vast chain of import (or, failing that, coherence).