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july 3, 2000. Somewhere along the line, my attention went elsewhere. I try all the excuses in my mouth, trying to find one that fits. There's a Fisher Price game for babies: a big hollow sphere with shapes cut in the side and babies learn shapes by trying to jam blocks in the side. It's an endlessly fascinating game for them - the babies, that is.
Writing for me is hard. It's hard for everybody; I know that. I can't get off the hook that way. When I do this, I feel like I'm jamming words into a larger shape: if I get it right, you'll enjoy yourself. If I don't, well, it's just a webpage right?
There are two things about Ernest Hemingway that I like to repeat. One: he taught Paris' father to waterski. Two: he said something like, "you have to write at least a million words before you're any good at it." I think of that and sometimes it makes me look forward to a hazy future where composition is easier and sometimes I despair that I'm just a monkey typing away at one of a million keyboards. Everybody wants to be the monkey producing the complete works of William Shakespeare; no one wants to be the rest. And why should they?
"It was the best of the times, it was the blurst of times? You stupid monkey!" "Yes, I was that monkey." In other words, I'm sorry I was gone so long. You could say it was writer's block, but it was probably just wanderlust. I should've hung a sign on the door: gone livin'.
(Honest, I just went out for a pack of cigarettes and there was this Indian brave...the lights...the candyfloss...I'm sorry baby. Please...aww...don't be like that.)
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I just figured out why I like this new design so much: it's transparent thievery from asylum (one of my favourite journals, now deceased.) I can't really sulk, though. Since giving up her journals, Stacy's been producing real, tangible, useful creative projects. But I still sulk, a little. I'm starving for good web writing these days: most of the journals on the links page have died, and the ones that remain are intermittently written by cats. Every couple of weeks I can tune into Nigel, but what about those mid-week lulls? Same with Amy - I can't get enough when it's up, but one story a month just makes me antsy for more. Then there's the ones that have gone downhill. Like Xeney...it's a shame, really. Her writing is very together, it's just her life that's boring.
One good new thing: thought experiment, written by the pregnant Karen. I love the dynamic between her and her Swedish husband. Of course, living in Toronto, I inevitably picture him as a sort of intelligent Mats Sundin.
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I've spent rather a lot of time being social this holiday weekend. Saturday we celebrated my grandmother's birthday with the traditional barbecue/pool party. I was a bit upset about the whole thing to start out with; the idea was presented to my mother as an inevitability - "your brother really enjoys these parties" my grandmother said to her daughter. Perhaps this has yet to come up, but my uncles are famous for their pathological cheapness. Except that's not strictly accurate. It's fairer to say that their generosity knows some well-defined bounds while my mother's extends well past the horizon. In my family we're a bit quick to protect her, if only to assuage the secret feeling that we are also taking advantage.
This year I figured out the secret of protecting my mother: arrange it so that my grandparents show up an hour late. They are in the habit of showing up early, getting in the way and rubbing at my mother's nerves but if there are other guests, their impact is completely cushioned. I was absurdly and abnormally happy during the first 3 hours of the party. There was always something to do and a new person to talk to before the conversation grated. People were pleasingly excited about the wedding and I got a kick out of showing them the Dress and the Rings before shooing them outside (I also got a chance to show off the Degree - since I got engaged a week after my graduation, my B.A. has received very little attention.) Nova Scotia was discussed at great length and with great excitement - my father's family concentrates on the practical details of such a move while my mother's family seems utterly caught up in the adventure.
And suddenly, at 8 p.m., they all left. I wonder if the Tom Waits album had anything to do with it.
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Saw Tank Girl last night. Silly, pretty, cute, but ultimately unsatisfying (kind of like Johnny Depp). I want to read the comics now...there's gotta be more grit in it that the simple presence of armament.
"First you have to strip." |
