Hello man sitting in the park
So, Sasha got this Life On Happy Hold thing going on quite nicely. She's settling in, but not for want of some distractions. Last night was a flurry of mosquitoes and Jennifer Crusie and Kelly Link and back issues of Heavy Metal. It was fun. Oh, yes, she rediscovered The Fifth Element and squealed like mad at Bruce Willis in his bright orange muscle shirt.
This morning she tried to get away though her eyes were clouding over with sleep and she had on a thin lavender shirt that didn't quite reach her midsection. But she stayed, partly because of exhaustion, partly because moving away would be a mere affectation and she'd only be miserable eventually. And so she spent an hour holding up dragons and horses and tigers to the light, and watched as a pencil marked their silhouettes.
Today, she got new books -- The Man who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks and Fault Lines: Stories of Divorce, an anthology which includes writers like Ann Beattie, Lorrie Moore, and Raymond Carver. She thinks the books will make her seem smart. She read Welcome to Temptation last night, before switching to Magic for Beginners. No one was looking anyway. Well, someone was but he never objected. Damn well wouldn't, shouldn't, if he knows what's good for him, haha. Ha. (No one gets this joke, ever.)
She's got this craving for ice cream. Or scoops of ice cream resting regally on a tall glass of halo-halo. She's not picky at this point. Just bring in the ice to bring in the summer.
And damn, but she likes to refer to herself in the third person because it's all the rage and all the Gwen Stefani girls like to do it like this.
*
Because writers remember everything, Paul. Especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones, you get novels, not amnesia. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is that ability to remember the story of every scar.
- From Misery by Stephen King
This morning she tried to get away though her eyes were clouding over with sleep and she had on a thin lavender shirt that didn't quite reach her midsection. But she stayed, partly because of exhaustion, partly because moving away would be a mere affectation and she'd only be miserable eventually. And so she spent an hour holding up dragons and horses and tigers to the light, and watched as a pencil marked their silhouettes.
Today, she got new books -- The Man who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks and Fault Lines: Stories of Divorce, an anthology which includes writers like Ann Beattie, Lorrie Moore, and Raymond Carver. She thinks the books will make her seem smart. She read Welcome to Temptation last night, before switching to Magic for Beginners. No one was looking anyway. Well, someone was but he never objected. Damn well wouldn't, shouldn't, if he knows what's good for him, haha. Ha. (No one gets this joke, ever.)
She's got this craving for ice cream. Or scoops of ice cream resting regally on a tall glass of halo-halo. She's not picky at this point. Just bring in the ice to bring in the summer.
And damn, but she likes to refer to herself in the third person because it's all the rage and all the Gwen Stefani girls like to do it like this.
*
Because writers remember everything, Paul. Especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he'll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones, you get novels, not amnesia. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is that ability to remember the story of every scar.
- From Misery by Stephen King
Labels: Life, Literature, Sweetness
posted by Sasha Martinez at
3:15:00 PM
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