Whoreo and Other Tragedies
11-8-98 9:06 pm Su
I'm at Shirelle's. I walked up here. The sky was bright and the clouds silver on a moonless night. A whale cloud floated over Hollywood illuminated by a Klieg light. We're lying in bed watching the previews before the video "Homegrown." One's for a video called "Whatever." I thought I owned that phrase. I did my 3pp and my 15 min but prolly won't get to work on Jim unless I edit what manuscript I've got here. What else? Whatever. Shirelle made spaghetti for dinner. We watched "The Simpsons." I took a shower. I read seven more trippy chapters of Ezekiel. More of god's wrath prophesied against the idolaters of Jerusalem. I hope I can read some Independence Day before sleepy time. What else? It might have been light enough on La Brea to read as I walked, but I thought I might get some ideas or clear my head--cross-purposes explaining why neither occurred other than a few fantasies about living in one or two of the houses for sale that I passed.
11-9-98 8:59 AM Mon
It's windy this morning. The kids are sharpening their pencils so they can write in their journals about their weekends. Shirelle took a video from her father called "Whoreo." We watched a little of it. I ate cereal for breakfast. Drank some coffee while Frank Bascombe hit on the Deerslayer Inn's chef. I only have fourteen students today. And already it's time for a what else?. I've got to e-mail Sheryl today. Call Alaska Airlines. Write to my uncle and his wife. Pick up my Adult Ed paperwork. Call Rawler. The Packers and Steelers are on Monday Night Football. It's the first Monday night game I've been interested in all season. Too bad I'll be at work. I wasn't at home this morning to do my 15 minutes. This is the three-year anniversary of my daily writing start, when I read Julia Cameron's Artist's Way and finally dedicated myself every day. I bought my computer the same month and was on the road to Cabo. Maybe I can say I've only been writing three years. When I look at it this way, I don't feel so bad that I write like a three-year-old. Whatever. Hope I can add a few more lines to Jim tonight. May as well have Aaron wake up. Ugh. I felt this urgency to get it going. I'll send in the paperwork for that UCLA conference today. Payday is Friday. By this time next month, I should know how much the IRS will take from my "Jeopardy!" winnings. Shrill put too much sugar in my coffee. What else? I'm not going to read the newspaper today. I wish I had the nuts to be a real writer, a real sleep-in-the-park poet. A real shot-at novelist. A real shoot-up tripper. Recognized genius-about-town. Shit. Maybe next year. I'll have more time next year. Got to figure out a way to save more money. What else? Should I stop here or go one more page?
"Mr. Zurn," Yadira says, "Jessica said she had another brother and sister, but they died when they was babies." "Oh, that's so sad," I say. "That happens sometimes." I figured they were stillborn tragedies of an undernourished, Central American, war-torn pregnancy but Yadira says, "One of dem die because she eat pins." Yadira wiggles her fingers on her chest. Jessica nods. "Oh, that's terrible," I say. It is. What else can I say? "Do oder juan die because she was playin wit scissors. She thing they are a toy, but she cut herself here." Yadira stabbed herself in the heart with imaginary scissors. Now my mind turns to a more gruesome explanation, poverty-induced infanticide. "Mr. Zurn, can we use the computer?" "Yeah, go ahead."
[ink sketches of children's heads]
I'm at Shirelle's. I walked up here. The sky was bright and the clouds silver on a moonless night. A whale cloud floated over Hollywood illuminated by a Klieg light. We're lying in bed watching the previews before the video "Homegrown." One's for a video called "Whatever." I thought I owned that phrase. I did my 3pp and my 15 min but prolly won't get to work on Jim unless I edit what manuscript I've got here. What else? Whatever. Shirelle made spaghetti for dinner. We watched "The Simpsons." I took a shower. I read seven more trippy chapters of Ezekiel. More of god's wrath prophesied against the idolaters of Jerusalem. I hope I can read some Independence Day before sleepy time. What else? It might have been light enough on La Brea to read as I walked, but I thought I might get some ideas or clear my head--cross-purposes explaining why neither occurred other than a few fantasies about living in one or two of the houses for sale that I passed.
11-9-98 8:59 AM Mon
It's windy this morning. The kids are sharpening their pencils so they can write in their journals about their weekends. Shirelle took a video from her father called "Whoreo." We watched a little of it. I ate cereal for breakfast. Drank some coffee while Frank Bascombe hit on the Deerslayer Inn's chef. I only have fourteen students today. And already it's time for a what else?. I've got to e-mail Sheryl today. Call Alaska Airlines. Write to my uncle and his wife. Pick up my Adult Ed paperwork. Call Rawler. The Packers and Steelers are on Monday Night Football. It's the first Monday night game I've been interested in all season. Too bad I'll be at work. I wasn't at home this morning to do my 15 minutes. This is the three-year anniversary of my daily writing start, when I read Julia Cameron's Artist's Way and finally dedicated myself every day. I bought my computer the same month and was on the road to Cabo. Maybe I can say I've only been writing three years. When I look at it this way, I don't feel so bad that I write like a three-year-old. Whatever. Hope I can add a few more lines to Jim tonight. May as well have Aaron wake up. Ugh. I felt this urgency to get it going. I'll send in the paperwork for that UCLA conference today. Payday is Friday. By this time next month, I should know how much the IRS will take from my "Jeopardy!" winnings. Shrill put too much sugar in my coffee. What else? I'm not going to read the newspaper today. I wish I had the nuts to be a real writer, a real sleep-in-the-park poet. A real shot-at novelist. A real shoot-up tripper. Recognized genius-about-town. Shit. Maybe next year. I'll have more time next year. Got to figure out a way to save more money. What else? Should I stop here or go one more page?
"Mr. Zurn," Yadira says, "Jessica said she had another brother and sister, but they died when they was babies." "Oh, that's so sad," I say. "That happens sometimes." I figured they were stillborn tragedies of an undernourished, Central American, war-torn pregnancy but Yadira says, "One of dem die because she eat pins." Yadira wiggles her fingers on her chest. Jessica nods. "Oh, that's terrible," I say. It is. What else can I say? "Do oder juan die because she was playin wit scissors. She thing they are a toy, but she cut herself here." Yadira stabbed herself in the heart with imaginary scissors. Now my mind turns to a more gruesome explanation, poverty-induced infanticide. "Mr. Zurn, can we use the computer?" "Yeah, go ahead."
[ink sketches of children's heads]
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
posted by johnz at 9:40 AM
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