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"I will try not to breathe."

It's already 1:39 p.m., because I was unable to get to sleep until almost 5 ayem, and because I awoke to fresh sorts of chaos. But what difference does it make, when I'm almost an entire month behind schedule.

Schedule. An idea that is anathema to life.

My head is filled, this morning, with all the colors of anger, and I'm making a conscious effort to let out only as much of it as I wish to release. Otherwise, it will gush forth and drown the...I almost wrote "drown the page." But there is no page, is there? We are moving rapidly towards the Extinction of the Page. Maybe whatever has stolen the page from me – vagaries of history – deserves to be drowned in all the colors of anger. Schedule surely deserves to drown. Sink it all.

In theory, I'm trying again to begin Chapter Five of Blood Oranges this afternoon. But...you, know...the story of how this book's gone sour is far too bizarre to explain here. Maybe someday I'll explain it somewhere. But it's bizarre and long. All that matters now it that I finish the thing, and move on to the next thing.

It's only a string of things.

If I'm very, very, very lucky I'll write today. If there were any other way on earth that I could make as much money as I make now – which is only just barely (and truly not even) just enough to take care of Spooky and myself – I'd stop writing. No, I mean for good.

Hardly any of the anger leaked out at all.

Teeth Bared,
Aunt Beast


( 12 comments — Have your say! )
Jul. 26th, 2011 06:31 pm (UTC)
*quietly hands you a stock of interesting objects to microwave*
Jul. 26th, 2011 06:56 pm (UTC)

We had to unplug the microwave to make room for the second AC.
Jul. 26th, 2011 06:59 pm (UTC)
*refocuses energies on building amusing spoon-based catapults for office-supply hurtling*

( http://home.comcast.net/~bobwhite90/Spoonapult.pdf )
Jul. 26th, 2011 06:36 pm (UTC)
Your post puts me in the mind of a Stevie Smith poem - "Waving Not Drowing" -- especially the last two lines. It's brief, so I'll post it here:

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Jul. 26th, 2011 06:56 pm (UTC)

Thank you. I very much love those last two lines.
Jul. 26th, 2011 07:18 pm (UTC)
You're welcome. I screwed up the title, it's actually "Not Waving But Drowning," but you probably figured that out...
Jul. 26th, 2011 07:01 pm (UTC)
Thank you. Perhaps because of the alliteration factor, I always erroneously attribute that piece to Marianne Moore.
Jul. 26th, 2011 07:30 pm (UTC)
probably fake, but cool looking
Jul. 26th, 2011 07:33 pm (UTC)
Re: probably fake, but cool looking

Help how?

Actually, it's probably not fake. These things happen.
Jul. 26th, 2011 07:34 pm (UTC)
Re: probably fake, but cool looking
i thought it was cute.
Jul. 26th, 2011 08:30 pm (UTC)
I almost wrote "drown the page."

Drown your books. Maybe that's all Prospero meant.
Jul. 26th, 2011 08:34 pm (UTC)

Works for me.
( 12 comments — Have your say! )