7 O’Clock on the Dot, I’m in my **** ***

I don’t even want to procrastinate, but I also don’t want to end the day without writing something.  I feel like I need to because of all this reading I’ve been doing lately and will continue doing until the end of the spring semester.

There is a novel I thoroughly enjoyed that is called The World According to Garp written by John Irving in which the main character Garp makes a distinction between the reader and writer.  I think about it often and whenever I do I wonder into which classification I fall.

I can’t call myself a writer because I don’t take writing as a hobby or potential career seriously.  But what if I did?  How much would I improve if I scrutinized my writings?  I would probably end up disliking writing altogether if that were the case; which is perhaps why I don’t take it seriously and only do it for fun.  I must be careful and dispel any confusion by illuminating the difference between the two kinds of writing I mainly do: fictional writing and scholarly writing.  I do not think I have ever written a scholarly essay for fun, not even once.  It has always been for some assignment or task that is school related.  This makes me uncomfortable because I like the main step that precedes the actual process of writing a scholarly paper: research.  So why don’t I do it for fun?  I don’t know.  The idea of doing research for some sort of side project just as a source of entertainment is simultaneously exciting and tiring.

But I can’t really call myself a true reader either.  I’m not like many who soak up and are able to read through novels quickly and efficiently.  I know of at least one probably reading this that has that quality which I envy about her.  I’m slow with novels.  I often have to stop, reflect, write something down, then read the same passage again.  If I read merely for the plot perhaps I would read faster, but I can’t even begin to force myself to do such a thing; though I have tried a number of times.  So it is for this reason I can’t read more than two novels at once unlike a reader such as my mother was and father tries to be.

Now that I’ve thought about it, I don’t care to be tagged as either a reader or writer.  Suck it, Irving.

The Awakening: or, Eat Your Heart Out Chopin

DEAR JOURNAL,,,…!!!  AS I OPENED my eyes at thirty minutes after the sixth hour this morning before the break of dawn, I was suddenly bound to a certain image.  No, this was not a mental image; on the contrary, journal, this image was part of the environ that consists of my sleeping quarters.  The image, one that was magnificently unaesthetic to my ocular method of perception, DISPLEASED AND HORRIFIED ME.  ”GRAGH,” I declared to the image that spelt out and expressed every nightmare I had ever dreamt and every ill thought anyone had ever thought ON me.   The image, as strange as it sounds, entranced me with its sublimity and I was not able to force mine eyes away from the pattern of colors and lines it consisted of.  It was, I suppose, in complete control of my life at that time.  (It is here, journal, that I have an opportunity to branch off into some branch of philosophy and reflect on what it really means to be in control of one’s life, but I know you tire of such ramblings).   THE WISDOM OF MY YOUTH came crashing down upon my poor mind in torrential loads.   Journal, that didn’t make any sense; what I meant was that I was finally able to see clearly after having been awake for a few minutes.  The image, it seems, was my feline companion.     He asked me, “why do you look at me with wide eyes as if I were some apparition that lacked corporeal form?”   “Devil!  Abhorred beast!” said I.  ”How dare you!”  But I soon forgave and submitted to the little fellow when I realized he spoke in a tongue I was familiar with and also held the point of a small knife to my wide, shining forehead. 

12/2/07: or, “Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?”

Slowly I awake to the sound of a dog growling.

Slowly I realize that the growl is actually one not belonging to a canine, but to a man.

Quickly anger, sadness, and everything else that opposes happiness swells up inside of me.  Starting from my stomach, up through my chest, into my throat, out of my mouth.  “Grarf,” I say.

I pout.

The growling man is saying incoherent, insulting things to his woman; however, he will never know how insulting and disrespectful he is due to several factors like childhood, jail, and laziness.

I seethe.

The voice is an extraordinarily annoying one.  Monotone.  Robotic.  Perhaps it won’t be immoral of me to murder him in cold blood.  “Tim, why would you murder another man who never did anything to you?”  To which I would say, “Well, I thought he was a robot.”

This very simple and witless line of thought satisfies my groggy mind and so I get up, open my door, and lovingly strangle the poor fellow.

I win.

I feel pretty rotten about it all at this point so I apologize half-heartedly to his woman, pee, and then head for the hills.  This depresses me because I know there are no hills nearby.

Eventually the police catch up.  I punched one firmly in the head, grabbed for his gun but ironically ended up with his hand cuffs instead.  I shrug, smile awkwardly, and assume the position.

Somehow my my cell-mate is my cat.  He smothers me in my sleep.

I suppose today was a pretty foul day.

9/27/07: or, the Day that the White Elephants Appeared

Ah, yes. Blogs. Web logs. Cell phones. IPhones. XBox. Sex Box?

DEAR JOURNAL…

TODAY I awoke with a feeling. Not a new feeling but a feeling. I opened my heavy eyes and made my hands into fists and curled them up which tightened my forearms. This is when I began to have the feeling I mentioned earlier. I felt my forearms continue to tighten more and more; they tightened more than I had intended them to. I suppose that it was the equivalent of a “charlie horse” felt in the legs. My eyes began to water which caused the dried up sleep in my eyes to irritate the sensitive surface of my eyeballs and so I began to tear up even more which worsened the situation. About twenty minutes later I am wearing boxer shorts and a large bath robe from Target. I am squirming in a chair at my kitchen table drinking coffee out of a large white mug that says “GOOD MORNING” on it in large black letters. Today will be a good day.

As I walked outside I frowned when I saw that the dew on the grass had made the bottoms of my pants damp. “I suppose my ankles will feel wet every time I sit down in a chair and the bottoms of my pants press against them,” I thought. I felt the heat and awkward smell rise up from the asphalt street outside of my house and thought, “today will be a glorious day.”

It was. And so I walked back inside and was content.