What If I Poured Some 150 Proof Rum in my Beer?
November 4, 1996
Here we go again. I'm listening to Toni Morrison's speech at her acceptance fo the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993. She excoriates "hate speech". I don't think she'd like my language one bit. My language betrays me. We are, and should be, our words, but I am not. My actions and my words rarely jibe. I feel wrong all the time, still. ~~It was sunny with intermittant clouds today in the Valley. We had a rainy day schedule, though, because new lines were being painted on the playground. I'm doing my journal and fifteen minutes regularly, but I still don't work on any manuscript with any faith. I have my novel class tonight. I have to turn in a plot outline tonight. I don't feel much strength from what I've developed so far. I feel beaten.
I've succumbed to preferring not to express myself. I blame that on my upbringing, and some larger, nebulous, pervasive, institutional teaching or something I don't know. I feel like I shouldn't write about other stuff while I listen to Toni Morrison warning against the language of hate. I got a double whopper and a chiken sandwich from Burger King on La Brea on my way home from work today. The same bad feeling I get when I boil a lobster I got when I carved open the pumpkin and scraped out its insides and sliced into it the face I wanted it to have.
I think maybe I don't give much of a damn about the plot. I might rather write one sentence after another with an ear tuned to the language, not really knowing where it will go. As much as I would enjoy being known as a storyteller, I realize I'm not a very good liar. Do I lack imagination? Is there a disparity between truth and imagination? Am I dork? What if I dumped a little hundred and fifty proof rum into my beer? I'm so stupid; that Burger King cost more than six bucks. I should have just gone to a movie. The beer from the keg in the kitchen is ok; neither too flat nor too warm. I still haven't looked over the ballot to get the exact working on the different propositions. You wonder if the medical marijuana initiative is not just going to become the DEA stoner roster. Your vote will put you on the federal to-bust list. What else? There's a new scab on my left flip-off knuckle. I showed it to a guy today who would not let me over on my way to Shar Avenue this morning. Then I caught up to him on the freeway and drove right alongside him for a few miles, just to remind him what a dickshit he was. Sorry, Toni.
There's a Clark Gable color western on American Movie Classics right now. The fourth and final light bulb in ceiling fan just burned out. I'll write in the dark. It couldn't be any worse. Tomorrow: Downey, Vote, Prep a Crack Copy for Xeroxing
Here we go again. I'm listening to Toni Morrison's speech at her acceptance fo the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993. She excoriates "hate speech". I don't think she'd like my language one bit. My language betrays me. We are, and should be, our words, but I am not. My actions and my words rarely jibe. I feel wrong all the time, still. ~~It was sunny with intermittant clouds today in the Valley. We had a rainy day schedule, though, because new lines were being painted on the playground. I'm doing my journal and fifteen minutes regularly, but I still don't work on any manuscript with any faith. I have my novel class tonight. I have to turn in a plot outline tonight. I don't feel much strength from what I've developed so far. I feel beaten.
I've succumbed to preferring not to express myself. I blame that on my upbringing, and some larger, nebulous, pervasive, institutional teaching or something I don't know. I feel like I shouldn't write about other stuff while I listen to Toni Morrison warning against the language of hate. I got a double whopper and a chiken sandwich from Burger King on La Brea on my way home from work today. The same bad feeling I get when I boil a lobster I got when I carved open the pumpkin and scraped out its insides and sliced into it the face I wanted it to have.
I think maybe I don't give much of a damn about the plot. I might rather write one sentence after another with an ear tuned to the language, not really knowing where it will go. As much as I would enjoy being known as a storyteller, I realize I'm not a very good liar. Do I lack imagination? Is there a disparity between truth and imagination? Am I dork? What if I dumped a little hundred and fifty proof rum into my beer? I'm so stupid; that Burger King cost more than six bucks. I should have just gone to a movie. The beer from the keg in the kitchen is ok; neither too flat nor too warm. I still haven't looked over the ballot to get the exact working on the different propositions. You wonder if the medical marijuana initiative is not just going to become the DEA stoner roster. Your vote will put you on the federal to-bust list. What else? There's a new scab on my left flip-off knuckle. I showed it to a guy today who would not let me over on my way to Shar Avenue this morning. Then I caught up to him on the freeway and drove right alongside him for a few miles, just to remind him what a dickshit he was. Sorry, Toni.
There's a Clark Gable color western on American Movie Classics right now. The fourth and final light bulb in ceiling fan just burned out. I'll write in the dark. It couldn't be any worse. Tomorrow: Downey, Vote, Prep a Crack Copy for Xeroxing
posted by johnz at 9:19 PM
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