write away the pain

Right now I'm at work and trying to improve my handwriting. I've read that people in my generation are taught not to write from their shoulders and forearms, but from their wrists, which leads to a compressed, painful manuscript. I'm trying to loosen it up, free up my cursive. It helps to give yourself two lines instead of one. Apparently, the muscles in the upper arm and shoulder are better for more precise motion, surprisingly. I wouldn't have considered that. I'm practicing.

The other night I did some thinking. Too much thinking - it kept me up for most of the night. Had to take the last bit of xanax to help me fall into unconsciousness, although it didn't really help. I don't know why I took that DXM either. That was awful. Although I read the newest issue of Time magazine almost cover to cover. The headlining piece was two articles, one by Fareed Zakaria, an immigrant, about the decline of America, and the other, by a native, telling us we're doing fine. The second piece failed to sucessfully argue most of the points by Zakaria, how our schools are succumbing to those of Asia and Europe, our debt is highest in the world, our our life expectancy is falling, obesity, etc. I wish it was online, it really evoked a deep sensation of passion for my country, but also a negativity. Our Congress is broken, the two-party political system is archaic, and we have people like this involved with public policy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6t6d9YBuFM . Screw you, Orange County!

my earliest creative memory

I remember being influenced by Walt Whitman in the 10th grade...my last really good creative moment was writing a poem like his...free verse, ending with something about trees in a hue of magnificent green. Maybe it was OK, but it was spontaneous! I did it in 30 minutes! I'm gonna ask my mentor if he still has it. OK, I just texted him. He probably won't get back to me for a little while.
Today so much needless driving, spark plugs, filters, chassies, metal grinding, pipes, chains, torques, wrenches, oil, oil and grease all over your hands and it's hard to scrape it off. Feeling the gasoline combust, feeling the vehicle move forward. Spending money on parts.

restored faith

It was so lovely speaking with R yesterday. I loved hearing about what he was writing. He was writing a thousand words a day with no problem, his completed NaNoWriMo acted as the source code for his novel in progress. It involves Greek mythos in imagined, modern characters. One thing that came up, he told me, when he was younger, he was far more critical of his work, and now he can just "let go". And before it was more autobiographical, and now he is happy to write about real characters from a third person perspective. Perhaps it's easy to write about what hasn't actually happened after writing a bit more about what has actually happened. I need to write more about my accounts with Elaine and Carolyn. Oh boy. He restored my faith, just listening to me let out about what I'm passionate about - misadventures!

Rough draft transcription (hopefully in entirety)

One day Bobby noticed that one of his sneakers was missing and he looked all over his room and house for it. He got frustrated and woke up his mother. "Mommy! Mommy! Have you seen my sneaker?"
"Bobby, I don't know. We can look for it later. Go back to sleep."
"But I wanted to see the sunrise at the mire!"
"Well, wear my slippers then and keep them clean."
"OK, thanks mommy!"
So Bobby ran to Mommy's closet and peered inside and found some big pink slippers and slid his feet into them and sauntered out of the house, careful not to let his feet out of the big, lanky grown-up shoes.
"Hmm," he thought to himself. "Which way was the mire again?" He stumbled back into his quiet house and woke up his father. "Daddy, daddy, which way is the mire?"
"Mmmph. Hmphf. Ughmm..."
"..."
"Umm, go around the left bend toward the meadow, but don't tread in it, that means you went too far. Make another left at the red rocks before the meadow and follow the rocky path down the swamp and you'll hit it. Run along now and be careful. I'm going back to bed. Mmphf."
"Thanks daddy!" said Bobby. He started to run out of the house, wanting to get there before sunrise, and almost tripped over his own feet in the process. "Stupid slippers! Well, better than being half barefoot on this rocky, muddy trail!" The sky was a dark velvet purple, with just enough clear moonlight for Bobby to find his way, but the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. He took the left bend toward the meadow and slowly maneuvered over the red rocks and slid down the muddy path, careful not to soil the pink slippers. But his feet came loose and so did his grip on the branches sticking out from the walls of the trench. It got stepper and steeper and he panicked as his sliding back a roll and he spun down the path like a loose tire until he hit the bottom of the mire, a pool of viscous, gooey brown mud, a stew of plan debris and rocks, probably devoid of life.
It was still when he reared his head and looked about the zone of muck and grime he'd gotten himself into. "Augh!" He shouted. He thought about the shoe he was looking for and the pink slippers he must have soiled and left behind in his spontaneous descent until..."Aughh!" he screamed as he felt a strange, sharp pull on his leg. "What? Hey! Help!!" A new limb wrapped around his arm. He shouted and squirmed until he saw a rounded, mysterious stump looming, rising from the mud and then stopping. There was a hiss, and a "Kaugh....KAKAKAKAKAKaugh..."
"Ollie? Ollie!!" Bobby shouted with glee. He felt the claws unwind around his limbs and for the first time, was happy to be stuck in a pit of mud with an alligator.
The beast reared his stump of a head and bore its teeth and let out of a loud grunt.
"Bobby..." It spoke like an overflown rain gutter, spewing water. "You can't just hop in here like a handicapped toad. I would have swallowed you whole!"
"It wasn't up to me, Ollie! The mire walls were super steep! What happened?"
"Oh, I've been doing a little remodeling to invite more...visitors. It worked for you, didn't it?"
"Yes, I guess so. Anyway the reason I stopped by is because I'm looking for a shoe."
"Heh, I think I got that. Gimme a sec." Ollie Alligator stood up high on his hind legs, rising out of the mire, spewing bits of mud everywhere while Bobby wipes some off his face. Nine feet is visible [...] and he inhales a torrent of air into his dark green nostrils and takes a step back from his little human friend. And, perfectly on cue he spits from his giant tree trunk snout a monsoon of mud and gunk and half-digested food scraps lining the mire with trash and debris. Bobby laughs and smiles at Ollie.
"I wish I could have done that at dinner last night...casserole again."
A loud belly chortle escapes Ollie. "Next time try to liberate those leftovers for me!"
Bobby eyed the now more-littered-than-before mire. Lying in the mud were chicken bones, pieces of string, pages from a Berenstein Bears coloring book, old coins, fathers, scraps of colored paper, some metal trinkets, soup cans and lids, receipts, spent Borders gift cards, old moldy bread, a milk carton, a shoe, a sleeping frog, a Band-Aid, someone's underwear, and what have you. It seemed like the garbage tsunami was coming to an end, all that Ollie was matriculating were now a few guttural belches.
"Hey!" Bobby shouted. He waded through the gunk and grabbed a now dark green and brown sneaker.
"Just leave it by the fireplace tonight, it'll be good as new in the morning," Ollie instructed. "Oh, do you want this coloring book? Even though...it's mostly colored mud?"
"No thanks, Ollie. I just got the new Captain Sassafras Molasses one. My dad bought me it!" Ollie puts his snout under the surface
and sucks up a piece of old chicken. "Cool! Well, have a safe trip home!"
"Thanks again, Ollie!" Bobby shouts back, relieved as he climbs up the walls of the valley of mud. Eventually, he made his way home, realizing he'd bumped into his mother. "Bobby," she said, "You made it!" She warmed him with an embrace. "Now, where are my slippers?"

Gregory

Gregory Aires opened the front door to his house, stepped out of it, and closed and locked the door behind him. He took a breath and began walking to his bus stop. Grey was the road and sidewalk constructed from concrete. Each house on the block had its own color scheme and set of trees and its own lawn depicting the amount of effort the owner put into its growth. Gregory Aires didn't think about how this particular day at the office would turn out, it was only Tuesday. No holiday, no early closing, no particular events in mind; he was just going to work. Of course, he was not free from his own thoughts.

April 14th taxes must do tonight do i have a program yes that's paid and that letter from AT&T bill has to be corrected should call Margie owe her a call sweet woman smile her hospitality shit Ryan was annoyed other day but Rosie says its fine the Charter assignment is due today maybe shopping after or to take the car in no time for that maybe I'll text Ryan or just wait and talk to him when I'm there did I take the Zyrtec yeah how much longer what am I gonna do those benefits don't kick in until fuck GP is general practitioner is there a meeting yes I got the cookies and W2s ready should make time at lunch and I fed Proust he'll be good as usual what about the farting yeah at the store I'll get that special stuff

He pulled an apple from his coat pocket and took a bite or two

A little more bitter than the Granny Smith I'm used to...

i want to be a writer

i guess i don't read enough in my off time. But when I have time to write digitally, i will NOT edit it, and will post it here so that it will be organized. maybe it will be cool to look back upon in the future. hopefully i do not stop trying.

if there is someone out there who is kind enough to comment, i will skim your blog and comment too. we can help each other in this cold desolate world