Is it a good thing or a bad thing if you can make your therapist laugh so hard she turns red?
[CSY]
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
At least I can make one person laugh
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
little black notebook
The worst part of living alone is having only one wardrobe to dress from.
I wrote that, apparently, in a black spiral notebook Thursday, the sixth of January 2005. I've been beating myself up lately about not Writing like I should (as opposed to writing, which I do all the time, Writing is the serious stuff, the poetry and essays and little stories that might someday get Published, which is what happens when you have a Publisher, as opposed to published, which is what happens when you're friends with your college's literature review editor). Of course, my self-flagellation is nothing compared to my friend Ori N's oh-god-my-master's-thesis-is-due-in-three-weeks desperation, but it does manifest itself in similar ways. Mostly, in trying to do everything in my power to avoid having to sit and try to write. Tonight, for example, I watched half of season five of Sex in the City, washed every dirty dish and sock in the house, read over my lesson plans for tomorrow night (twice) and started reading through old notebooks to determine what to toss and what to keep.
I used to keep all my old notebooks, but I soon came to realize that my serial apartment life-style and box after box of notebooks filled with adolescent angst did not go hand in hand. So I have begun the (undeniably painful) process of reading through EVERY SINGLE NOTEBOOK and determining what stays and what goes out in a Pay-As-You-Throw yellow bag. Nearly everything between the ages of 11 and 15 has gone; pre-11 writings aren't heinously hormonol and post-15 notebooks begin to have some crude style and substance to them. And this one notebook, this black one from December 2005 to January 2006 has some really great stuff I'd pretty much forgotten about. The little black notebook stays.
I ran into an old coworker today, a former $tarwhore like myself. He'll be graduating in May and wants to move to New York.
"Oh," I said. "You're one of those."
"I am," he said. "I know it's such a cliche but...I feel so stifled here in Atlanta, you know? I mean, I love Atlanta, I grew up here and all, but I don't feel like I can be everything I can be here. New York is just so ALIVE. I feel alive there."
"Yeah," I said. "I hear you. About Atlanta, that is. I love Atlanta, and I grew up here too...but I really want to move again once I graduate."
I wrote that, apparently, in a black spiral notebook Thursday, the sixth of January 2005. I've been beating myself up lately about not Writing like I should (as opposed to writing, which I do all the time, Writing is the serious stuff, the poetry and essays and little stories that might someday get Published, which is what happens when you have a Publisher, as opposed to published, which is what happens when you're friends with your college's literature review editor). Of course, my self-flagellation is nothing compared to my friend Ori N's oh-god-my-master's-thesis-is-due-in-three-weeks desperation, but it does manifest itself in similar ways. Mostly, in trying to do everything in my power to avoid having to sit and try to write. Tonight, for example, I watched half of season five of Sex in the City, washed every dirty dish and sock in the house, read over my lesson plans for tomorrow night (twice) and started reading through old notebooks to determine what to toss and what to keep.
I used to keep all my old notebooks, but I soon came to realize that my serial apartment life-style and box after box of notebooks filled with adolescent angst did not go hand in hand. So I have begun the (undeniably painful) process of reading through EVERY SINGLE NOTEBOOK and determining what stays and what goes out in a Pay-As-You-Throw yellow bag. Nearly everything between the ages of 11 and 15 has gone; pre-11 writings aren't heinously hormonol and post-15 notebooks begin to have some crude style and substance to them. And this one notebook, this black one from December 2005 to January 2006 has some really great stuff I'd pretty much forgotten about. The little black notebook stays.
***
I ran into an old coworker today, a former $tarwhore like myself. He'll be graduating in May and wants to move to New York.
"Oh," I said. "You're one of those."
"I am," he said. "I know it's such a cliche but...I feel so stifled here in Atlanta, you know? I mean, I love Atlanta, I grew up here and all, but I don't feel like I can be everything I can be here. New York is just so ALIVE. I feel alive there."
"Yeah," I said. "I hear you. About Atlanta, that is. I love Atlanta, and I grew up here too...but I really want to move again once I graduate."
[CSY]
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Where have I been?
Not here, apparently. After fully intending to make a "fresh" start, I got bogged down in school, work, internship, et al (aka LIFE) and never got around to writing something amazing and witty for you. I vowed to make this blog readable (if not meaningful) and at least mildly entertaining, but I am afraid this post is neither.
Argh.
Argh.
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