7:19 p.m.I had this plan to come home and write - after last night's outburst - and then I got home and it was all, like, I need to take Jesse for a walk but I wanna write (I have an idea for something); oh, and I was gonna make soup and baked squash tonight, but I'll let Jesse hang out and look up something for my idea on the web (Halloween 1956); and then I'm done with that and bored now, and I think I'll just look at some porn (or porno, as the call it here, or these days) and jerk off--or maybe play some video games.
(And then, when that was done:) Now I think I'll cook that stuff. Maybe I should get high first. And have a beer; I'd wanted a beer. (I don't know if the influence is R or Charles Bukowski, but I feel more debaucherous(?) lately.) (Someone once said they could imagine my life as a series of parenthetical statements!) (But the good thing about writing is you can always look back to find your train of thought.)
So (obviously) I got high. I tried to get to work on the soup, but I thought maybe I'd make a cream of potato soup instead, but I couldn't find a cream of potato soup recipe in five cookbooks. I knew I could find one on the Web, but that was a trap.
I went back to the squash soup I'd bought some ingredients for just this rainy morning. It's a recipe from (my favorite) Nikki & David Goldberg's American Wholefoods Cuisine cookbook. But I couldn't re-find the recipe. I had written the page number down on the shopping list, but I didn't want to search for that, so I just gave up on the project (now high) and went to watch TV.
I looked at the clock. 7:07. "Oh, yeah, CD told me I should watch Wickedly Perfect tonight. It started at 7. I'll give it a look." Fortunately, the cable hasn't been working well all day; I guess because of the storm.
I caught myself. "I oughta be writing right now instead of staring at a snow-covered TV screen." That's how I got here.
7:41 p.m.
I'm feeling the pull. Should I go back and try to catch the exciting last moments? I have a strong idea, something like "A Little Pirate Story," about the night Richie died. Halloween 1956. he was 7. The same age Dickie is in the Red Room, first time at his grandparents' house overnight. But I think the pirate story is gonna have to wait. I'm gonna let it fester a little more.
9:36
I figure I just have to let the emotions flow through me. I like my handwriting right now. Or, that first sentence, anyway. I tend to prefer skinner letters, but they don't always come out that way. Isn't that funny? Though I do like the occasional flare, and I love when a letter with an "i" in it winds up in the line below a letter with a tail, and the dot goes nicely in the tail, particularly in a fat tail, so I don't know what I'm saying, dissin' fat-tailed letters!
(And then, when that was done:) Now I think I'll cook that stuff. Maybe I should get high first. And have a beer; I'd wanted a beer. (I don't know if the influence is R or Charles Bukowski, but I feel more debaucherous(?) lately.) (Someone once said they could imagine my life as a series of parenthetical statements!) (But the good thing about writing is you can always look back to find your train of thought.)
So (obviously) I got high. I tried to get to work on the soup, but I thought maybe I'd make a cream of potato soup instead, but I couldn't find a cream of potato soup recipe in five cookbooks. I knew I could find one on the Web, but that was a trap.
I went back to the squash soup I'd bought some ingredients for just this rainy morning. It's a recipe from (my favorite) Nikki & David Goldberg's American Wholefoods Cuisine cookbook. But I couldn't re-find the recipe. I had written the page number down on the shopping list, but I didn't want to search for that, so I just gave up on the project (now high) and went to watch TV.
I looked at the clock. 7:07. "Oh, yeah, CD told me I should watch Wickedly Perfect tonight. It started at 7. I'll give it a look." Fortunately, the cable hasn't been working well all day; I guess because of the storm.
I caught myself. "I oughta be writing right now instead of staring at a snow-covered TV screen." That's how I got here.
7:41 p.m.
I'm feeling the pull. Should I go back and try to catch the exciting last moments? I have a strong idea, something like "A Little Pirate Story," about the night Richie died. Halloween 1956. he was 7. The same age Dickie is in the Red Room, first time at his grandparents' house overnight. But I think the pirate story is gonna have to wait. I'm gonna let it fester a little more.
9:36
I figure I just have to let the emotions flow through me. I like my handwriting right now. Or, that first sentence, anyway. I tend to prefer skinner letters, but they don't always come out that way. Isn't that funny? Though I do like the occasional flare, and I love when a letter with an "i" in it winds up in the line below a letter with a tail, and the dot goes nicely in the tail, particularly in a fat tail, so I don't know what I'm saying, dissin' fat-tailed letters!
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