By The Way
BigHead has taken to laying around under my vehicles and under my house. He's not pretending to be my cat and I don't pretend I like him, but on the other hand I don't show him flagrant disrespect.
This week lest anyone should accuse me of lacking regard for chick writers I have purposefully set a path to change that perception and have gleefully read the work of Anne Tyler, Harper Lee, and Slyvia Plath. And there's an Alice Munro waiting in this week's New Yorker but I have not always, or ever, been crazy for her so there's that.
I love Anne Tyler, and whosoever shall not love Harper Lee will burn eternally, and I wish Sylvia had not killed herself because her Bell Jar is an elucidation, and one might wish there was more of her (prose) to read.
At least two of the tires on the truck have nails in them and the spare is a flat shredded retread which is why I'm over here at Dumaine working (ha) at this instead of driving over the Mississippi River Bridge--which is being repainted and has narrowed lanes and no shoulder to pull off onto when all your tires blow out--to shop at various (two competing) Home Improvement outlets. But you know, the thing is, if you don't pull the nails out you can drive a pretty fair length of time on a tire with a nail in it and that's a fact on the other side of an equation which is me losing my nerve. Ima go in a minute though.
I don't mean anything bad, at least in my humble opinion, by using that phrase "chick writer," and in any case I am so far removed from a world inhabited by women who would give a fck, or who would deem me worthy of their wrath, that it seems ok to me in the sense that playing around with a rattlesnake that may only be sleeping is ok. And also I am in a perpetual state of ambiguity as to whether this lack of educated opinionated woman in my life is a bad thing. I know I don't yearn for a serious discussion on the meaning of Ms. Plath's misanthropy and eventual disengagement. I would have nothing to add, and how seriously would you take me when I said, "I dig her; cool chick; I am really effected by her."?
There's a bunch of kids, maybe five or six, sleeping on the floor over to my left in the front room. There's central air and ceiling fans running over here now so the inside summer climate is uniformly comfortable for the first time in 105 years. Southern University redshirt freshman footballer Eddie Green is missing in action this morning so Irving, who pops a mean wheelie, is curled fetally on his bed, which used to be mine. I am not lamenting the loss off that bed and could in no way justify lament because there has never been a shortage of places for me to sleep in quiet peace--under bridges and steps, in dog houses, on floors, on construction sites, in cars and trains, on the white sands of a missile testing range, in caves, in condos, in gullies, by a pig sty, in a shack, in the woods, on the wet sand, by the bay, in the desert, in the jungle, on couches, in chairs, on benches, and once in a while under fresh clean sheets in places that I am not used to and are not used to me, I sleep so peacefully.
There are those who have noted and commented, and complained, with jealousy and without, about my remarkable (yet not narcoleptic) ability to sleep--so to speak and literally--through tornadoes, and rainstorms, and waking up encircled by wild (sleeping) dogs in Mexico being a able to fall back asleep, and waking up to the searching hands of a hobo in Yuma who was going for the buck knife I foolishly wore on my side, stirring with enough fright and movement to interrupt his attempt, yet still being able to fall right back to sleep. I think I'm too passive is it. I better go do something. Kids are waking up. I might get in a nap later on.
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BigHead has taken to laying around under my vehicles and under my house. He's not pretending to be my cat and I don't pretend I like him, but on the other hand I don't show him flagrant disrespect.
This week lest anyone should accuse me of lacking regard for chick writers I have purposefully set a path to change that perception and have gleefully read the work of Anne Tyler, Harper Lee, and Slyvia Plath. And there's an Alice Munro waiting in this week's New Yorker but I have not always, or ever, been crazy for her so there's that.
I love Anne Tyler, and whosoever shall not love Harper Lee will burn eternally, and I wish Sylvia had not killed herself because her Bell Jar is an elucidation, and one might wish there was more of her (prose) to read.
At least two of the tires on the truck have nails in them and the spare is a flat shredded retread which is why I'm over here at Dumaine working (ha) at this instead of driving over the Mississippi River Bridge--which is being repainted and has narrowed lanes and no shoulder to pull off onto when all your tires blow out--to shop at various (two competing) Home Improvement outlets. But you know, the thing is, if you don't pull the nails out you can drive a pretty fair length of time on a tire with a nail in it and that's a fact on the other side of an equation which is me losing my nerve. Ima go in a minute though.
I don't mean anything bad, at least in my humble opinion, by using that phrase "chick writer," and in any case I am so far removed from a world inhabited by women who would give a fck, or who would deem me worthy of their wrath, that it seems ok to me in the sense that playing around with a rattlesnake that may only be sleeping is ok. And also I am in a perpetual state of ambiguity as to whether this lack of educated opinionated woman in my life is a bad thing. I know I don't yearn for a serious discussion on the meaning of Ms. Plath's misanthropy and eventual disengagement. I would have nothing to add, and how seriously would you take me when I said, "I dig her; cool chick; I am really effected by her."?
There's a bunch of kids, maybe five or six, sleeping on the floor over to my left in the front room. There's central air and ceiling fans running over here now so the inside summer climate is uniformly comfortable for the first time in 105 years. Southern University redshirt freshman footballer Eddie Green is missing in action this morning so Irving, who pops a mean wheelie, is curled fetally on his bed, which used to be mine. I am not lamenting the loss off that bed and could in no way justify lament because there has never been a shortage of places for me to sleep in quiet peace--under bridges and steps, in dog houses, on floors, on construction sites, in cars and trains, on the white sands of a missile testing range, in caves, in condos, in gullies, by a pig sty, in a shack, in the woods, on the wet sand, by the bay, in the desert, in the jungle, on couches, in chairs, on benches, and once in a while under fresh clean sheets in places that I am not used to and are not used to me, I sleep so peacefully.
There are those who have noted and commented, and complained, with jealousy and without, about my remarkable (yet not narcoleptic) ability to sleep--so to speak and literally--through tornadoes, and rainstorms, and waking up encircled by wild (sleeping) dogs in Mexico being a able to fall back asleep, and waking up to the searching hands of a hobo in Yuma who was going for the buck knife I foolishly wore on my side, stirring with enough fright and movement to interrupt his attempt, yet still being able to fall right back to sleep. I think I'm too passive is it. I better go do something. Kids are waking up. I might get in a nap later on.
- jimlouis 7-22-2001 2:57 pm