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So, then. I drew a rabbit, but I'm really rusty at drawing and it turned out lousy. The original idea for this joke was going to be a direct quote from Oprah Winfrey about hair dye being the most important invention of the century for women, but then I got this pamphlet in the mail about geocentrism that was really delicious in both its outrageousness and its professionalism.
I have been writing a lot of paragraphs that fit together into little unfinished short stories and fragments of my first and second novels (one of which I need to finish editing for publication, and the other of which I just need to finish), and I'm proud of one or two of them here and there. Like this one:
In my head, I am running through little snippets of theoretical computer code, which I still enjoy outside of the classroom. When I sit down at the computer to do it, my internal logic doesn’t come out at all right. I know exactly what I’m doing, but I still get an unknown parameter value, which means fuck nothing to me in figuring out what I’ve done wrong. Here on the bus, I write eloquent little programs that unfold into constellations and organic patterns that hint at the ways chaos and order really are the same thing at different perspectives, which is a nice little way for me to be okay with not having a handle on anything. This is the only time I can really get still and think, here on the bus.
And maybe this one:
What are Tom’s motivations as he snakes through the tables and into the mass of suburbanites? I don’t know. Maybe it’s that he’s had society forced on him. Maybe directions are scrawled out in his brain from the time of sharp sticks demanding that he earn his survival. Maybe he’s never fired a gun at a heartbeat. What I do know is that Tom, the man with the live-in girlfriend and the nice new house on the edge of town, is charged with the kind of kinetic energy usually reserved for fucking and fighting.
Most of my favorite paragraphs have swear words in them.
I've also been writing poetry, like this:
Fair City
This fair city I live in now
Was built with a cookie cutter,
A ruler, some concrete, and steel
Paid for by men like my father.
Who left their wives, their kids behind
To drain the guts from foreign soil
Until promotions brought them home
To find their town was gray, as ever.
Basically what I'm trying to say is that I'm still capable of putting words into sentences. I know I took down the writing section of the website, but that's only because I'm trying to build a separate site for writing. For those of you who miss it, well, I'm working on it, and I plan on updating it every Friday with a new story or poem.
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