The Library
I get to go to the library for lunch breaks at work. I sit among the students and the homeless tirelessly locked into their daily routines, as I attend to mine -- a BLT with 2 carrot sticks, sometimes a bag of Fritos (TM). The water feature glints in the sunlight pouring from the sky above within the center of this mecca of knowledge and of my adventure.
Sometimes I'm a detective -- I drift back to being one of Nancy Drew's crew, silently stalking the criminal, in the most dangerous places, while retaining that 1960s ladylike behavior, so that Ned will always know he's still the man, and that she's the woman, though only 18 and for sure accomplishing more than my modest flight from Chicago to Los Angeles, 3000 miles away from everything in my own Known world. Sometimes I'm frittering away the day, studying about my latest hobby, whether it be gardening or cat care or some other subject. Occasionally I am romantically swept away by Prince Charmings that don't exist, or hunting strange beasts on islands that the TV series "Lost" cannot even describe. Once in awhile, I challenge myself to decoding the antics of Hemingway or Faulkner, living a rich and full life in the South, charasmatically wearing the Scarlett O'Hara dress, and telling Rhett "I love you." (Ok, so sometimes it's a romantic drama, and not just one of those cheap Harlequin matters, but you get the point).
It has been often that I have begun retreating from the online world, and to some extent the outside offline world, into this private haven that someone else wrote. But what I constantly forget is that I have a story to write, and if I don't get to it, it'll die in my head, forever mummified in my remains until ashes become ashes and dust becomes dust.
So I abandon my own blog, my own stories, in favor of artificial snapshots from someone else's unfathomable mind. And I derrive a fantasy of sorts, that I, could never be as good as them. Which is preposterous, not because I am a genius, though that certainly could be the case, however, because I merely cannot know until I have tried. So I have whittled down a few phrases and I know this isn't my best work, but it is indeed work, and that is a start. As I wrote that last sentence I heard a little "british" accent come through. And that, my friends, is what every writer misses, whether he/she knows it; that voice is in there, aching to come alive and to breathe life into these things we call words/letters/symbols. We may not be named William Shakespeare, but I think the JadedTLC, the GrumbleFish, the Kid, the Leese (who goes by a more regular name I might add), and the Jen and Jimmy Jazz; we have our voices, and with this chorus of blah plus genius, there is some kind of music out there to be written.
Sometimes I'm a detective -- I drift back to being one of Nancy Drew's crew, silently stalking the criminal, in the most dangerous places, while retaining that 1960s ladylike behavior, so that Ned will always know he's still the man, and that she's the woman, though only 18 and for sure accomplishing more than my modest flight from Chicago to Los Angeles, 3000 miles away from everything in my own Known world. Sometimes I'm frittering away the day, studying about my latest hobby, whether it be gardening or cat care or some other subject. Occasionally I am romantically swept away by Prince Charmings that don't exist, or hunting strange beasts on islands that the TV series "Lost" cannot even describe. Once in awhile, I challenge myself to decoding the antics of Hemingway or Faulkner, living a rich and full life in the South, charasmatically wearing the Scarlett O'Hara dress, and telling Rhett "I love you." (Ok, so sometimes it's a romantic drama, and not just one of those cheap Harlequin matters, but you get the point).
It has been often that I have begun retreating from the online world, and to some extent the outside offline world, into this private haven that someone else wrote. But what I constantly forget is that I have a story to write, and if I don't get to it, it'll die in my head, forever mummified in my remains until ashes become ashes and dust becomes dust.
So I abandon my own blog, my own stories, in favor of artificial snapshots from someone else's unfathomable mind. And I derrive a fantasy of sorts, that I, could never be as good as them. Which is preposterous, not because I am a genius, though that certainly could be the case, however, because I merely cannot know until I have tried. So I have whittled down a few phrases and I know this isn't my best work, but it is indeed work, and that is a start. As I wrote that last sentence I heard a little "british" accent come through. And that, my friends, is what every writer misses, whether he/she knows it; that voice is in there, aching to come alive and to breathe life into these things we call words/letters/symbols. We may not be named William Shakespeare, but I think the JadedTLC, the GrumbleFish, the Kid, the Leese (who goes by a more regular name I might add), and the Jen and Jimmy Jazz; we have our voices, and with this chorus of blah plus genius, there is some kind of music out there to be written.
posted by JadedTLC at Wednesday, May 24, 2006
1 comments
