4-12-96
Shirelle has a delicious-smelling roast in the oven. The Angels are playing in Detroit. Shirelle's friend Dimona stopped in. Shirelle made her a sandwich. Dimona told me about some books she was reading, James Baldwin and John Irving and how she couldn't get through The Sound and the Fury with it's retarded first person narrator.
My mom just called to make sure my brother didn't stiff me for the Dodger tix last Mon.
I was reading in a journal last night from leap year 1992 and I wondered in the entry of back then how much my writing would have improved by leap year 1996 which is now, and my writing has only gotten less energetic and less imaginative.
If I give it up, though, what would I do?
Read more, watch TV and go to more movies and exercise, act, play baseball, make more money--why am I such a slave to my pathetic writing?
I think I'll get up early tomorrow and take my pole up to Perris Lake and then go see my grandparents. But there's also this LA Times sponsered Festival of Books at UCLA and the Long Beach Grand Prix is going on, too.
My writing used to have more dialog and characterization then this drab reporting and whining I do in here now.
"How will I get to the bottom of this page," Wink wondered worriedly. It was as if his corpus collosum had been severed; if he had any ideas, they weren't making it from the cerebrum to the cortex, and so he was unaware of any EEG activity that might have been going on. He put the tip of the pencil to the paper and waited. Perhaps some random animus would visit upon his fingers, seize his pencil and fill the page. There seemed to be a neutralization in him, though. He didn't know if he wanted to enlighten or entertain; each urge froze out the other, immobilizing him. Maybe if he alternated his effort each day between the two, he might move forward like the alternating steps, left and right, of his slowly atrophying legs.
-
"Guess what, dude, I quit my job," Adam informed Jim without giving him any chance to guess. I'm going back to Utah and leave all this sh-I mean parties behind. You don't know what went on the other day, man. I really fuc-I mean messed up badly. You know I was balancing on the wall at the beach again when..."
Shirelle has a delicious-smelling roast in the oven. The Angels are playing in Detroit. Shirelle's friend Dimona stopped in. Shirelle made her a sandwich. Dimona told me about some books she was reading, James Baldwin and John Irving and how she couldn't get through The Sound and the Fury with it's retarded first person narrator.
My mom just called to make sure my brother didn't stiff me for the Dodger tix last Mon.
I was reading in a journal last night from leap year 1992 and I wondered in the entry of back then how much my writing would have improved by leap year 1996 which is now, and my writing has only gotten less energetic and less imaginative.
If I give it up, though, what would I do?
Read more, watch TV and go to more movies and exercise, act, play baseball, make more money--why am I such a slave to my pathetic writing?
I think I'll get up early tomorrow and take my pole up to Perris Lake and then go see my grandparents. But there's also this LA Times sponsered Festival of Books at UCLA and the Long Beach Grand Prix is going on, too.
My writing used to have more dialog and characterization then this drab reporting and whining I do in here now.
"How will I get to the bottom of this page," Wink wondered worriedly. It was as if his corpus collosum had been severed; if he had any ideas, they weren't making it from the cerebrum to the cortex, and so he was unaware of any EEG activity that might have been going on. He put the tip of the pencil to the paper and waited. Perhaps some random animus would visit upon his fingers, seize his pencil and fill the page. There seemed to be a neutralization in him, though. He didn't know if he wanted to enlighten or entertain; each urge froze out the other, immobilizing him. Maybe if he alternated his effort each day between the two, he might move forward like the alternating steps, left and right, of his slowly atrophying legs.
-
"Guess what, dude, I quit my job," Adam informed Jim without giving him any chance to guess. I'm going back to Utah and leave all this sh-I mean parties behind. You don't know what went on the other day, man. I really fuc-I mean messed up badly. You know I was balancing on the wall at the beach again when..."
posted by johnz at 6:11 PM
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