More Belly-Button Meditations
Tuesday May 28
I left this journal locked here in room 29 over Memorial Day weekend. I definitely suffered some separation anxiety. Wrote instead in the blurb journal the incidents of the weekend. It has been a mostly unremarkable 24 hours to comment on since the last entry that I did in that journal, the blurb journal. My mind and pencil are free to wander.
I'd like to go to lunch now, but I'll wait until I get home. There's a little tin can here decorated with 10 cent stamps from 1974-75: Monticello, Currier and Ives, Bunker Hill Bicentennial by Trumbo, the Pioneer spacecraft Mercury and Venus Explorations. I remember these stamps. September of '75 I started second grade.
Could really go for a puff today. I'm still embarrassed I told a girl I wanted my writing to be "gut-wrenching". Ugh. Today I call UCLA Extension, write to Lisa Sheffield and pick up the bong I left at the party in Westwood. I'm hungry. My thoughts keep turning to my belly. We played softball at school today. Some of the girls can really swing the stick. Moving write along through Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas. I'm enjoying it, it's fun to read, but I feel like I might have outgrown my appreciation of Robbins philosphy in this one.
Okay, truly, go, go, go 40 minutes without stopping today, Jim's conversation with Adam about moving to Utah and why. I wish I could puff, though. I'm so broke. I got paid Friday. I wrote checks for my bills and the money is all gone.
There seems to be nothing to think about or write about for that matter. I feel very shallow. This, I;m afraid will be one of those pages I'll cringe at reading years from now. I read about Joseph Wambaugh in the paper today. He said he didn't believe he had experience or maturity to even begin writing until he was thirty.
What I menat by "gut-wrenching" is that I want to work on feelings of my reader that are so emotional and visceral, that when I bring them to the climax, it jolts their souls. Like when Geroge kills Lenny. That's my wish, but at this point I'm willing to settle for just a little undeniable epiphany.
In twenty more minutes I'll be on my way home to type, type, type, and make some important phone calls and rehook up to the fucking net.
Until then, ciao, baby and always remember who loves ya. Amen. Farewell for now.
I left this journal locked here in room 29 over Memorial Day weekend. I definitely suffered some separation anxiety. Wrote instead in the blurb journal the incidents of the weekend. It has been a mostly unremarkable 24 hours to comment on since the last entry that I did in that journal, the blurb journal. My mind and pencil are free to wander.
I'd like to go to lunch now, but I'll wait until I get home. There's a little tin can here decorated with 10 cent stamps from 1974-75: Monticello, Currier and Ives, Bunker Hill Bicentennial by Trumbo, the Pioneer spacecraft Mercury and Venus Explorations. I remember these stamps. September of '75 I started second grade.
Could really go for a puff today. I'm still embarrassed I told a girl I wanted my writing to be "gut-wrenching". Ugh. Today I call UCLA Extension, write to Lisa Sheffield and pick up the bong I left at the party in Westwood. I'm hungry. My thoughts keep turning to my belly. We played softball at school today. Some of the girls can really swing the stick. Moving write along through Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas. I'm enjoying it, it's fun to read, but I feel like I might have outgrown my appreciation of Robbins philosphy in this one.
Okay, truly, go, go, go 40 minutes without stopping today, Jim's conversation with Adam about moving to Utah and why. I wish I could puff, though. I'm so broke. I got paid Friday. I wrote checks for my bills and the money is all gone.
There seems to be nothing to think about or write about for that matter. I feel very shallow. This, I;m afraid will be one of those pages I'll cringe at reading years from now. I read about Joseph Wambaugh in the paper today. He said he didn't believe he had experience or maturity to even begin writing until he was thirty.
What I menat by "gut-wrenching" is that I want to work on feelings of my reader that are so emotional and visceral, that when I bring them to the climax, it jolts their souls. Like when Geroge kills Lenny. That's my wish, but at this point I'm willing to settle for just a little undeniable epiphany.
In twenty more minutes I'll be on my way home to type, type, type, and make some important phone calls and rehook up to the fucking net.
Until then, ciao, baby and always remember who loves ya. Amen. Farewell for now.
posted by johnz at 6:47 AM
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