I remember, nostalgically, the accounting for days not so long ago in the early days of this writing space, and now it’s a month.  I just remembered that I did the same thing in my childhood journal, but it took longer; for years I wrote something every day in it, I did it starting when I was eleven pretty much until college, when I started categorizing the kinds of writing I was doing, and the journals started changing shape inside and out (you can see on the shelf where I keep them right when I went to college.  Note to self post a pic.)  In March all I have accomplished other than earning my paycheck is a collection of promised pieces:  a tribute to an aging teacher due next fall, something about flannery o’connor and disability for sometime, a pretend lecture about godzilla in the next few weeks.  And because I’ve been reading from the apocalypses I want to go back and rewrite that book again, especially since people in life get so excited about it but people in publishing not so much so far anyhow.  But I don’t want to get fragmented.  That was the pre-oughts, when explosions were more theoretical in the hearts and minds of the more or less comfy american types.  The novel should be smooth, rounded, enormous, of all those fragments with only the hints of seams showing, and even the seams worn down.

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4 Responses to march

  1. an admirer says:

    hmmm…i know nothing.

    but flannery o’conner? tributes to aging teachers? godzilla!!! all things with sharp points and jagged edges to me, either possessing or pursued from duty and great heart. but still jagged. prickly. a little dangerous. esp to the ego. we’re all now being smoothed and seams rubbed out these times somehow aren’t we? do you ever feel when you’re watching the people of egypt & libya & tunisia & sudan & & & … rising up as they get gunned down that you’re looking at the jagged spirits of all those 1776 baddass motherf*ckers for freedom on the brink of their own exceedingly imminent apocalypses that we used to know? and that pre-ought or post-ought did you ever wish and wonder “oh america, where’s our tunisian streetcart dude???

    and your apocalypses? (the lc one’s that I’veread?) they be jagged to me. ra-zor shar-pppp, dang-errrr-rrroussss.

    i, of course, know nothing. maybe the smooth, rounded, enormous, with only the hints of seams showing is exactly right. what do I know?

    well… I do know this. I know longing.

    be our tunisian street cart dude. be sharp and jagged and fragmented and dangerous. help us …to be…(all of us)… our own tunisian street cart dudes. we only ask what we know you can do. but we do ask for every bit of it don’t we?


    an admirer

    p.s. standing offer to publish any number of lc apocalypses next earth-day, printed on sheets of oragami paper folded into the shape of those little helicopter thingys that drop from trees and air lifted to disperse over large to medium size city of your choosing; dozens, hundreds or thousands of little end-of-the-world twirly thingys, gently rotoring down from the sky… in the best tradition of the righteous prophets, thundering down gently from the sky with the word, in the best tradition of the righteous prophets. go artist.

  2. an admirer says:

    p.s. also don’t know so much how to turn that thing off/on.

  3. an admirer says:

    i mean that italics i thing. sheesh.

  4. lucy says:

    longing– yep– sitting in this pretty house with this view of the best city ever and who doesn’t still want her very own private revolutionary streetcar? (I’m thinking of Lispector’s “Smallest Woman in the World”) … thanks, an admirer (woo hoo! an admirer!)

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