Every Day Is A Winding Road That Leads To A Dead End
Do you believe there is a story in you? Words, which when put together in the exact right way, will change your life, will change the way other people see you, will change how you see yourself? I believe it. There is a story I started to write that haunts me. It started like this:
We were drunk in Mexico. We were always drunk in Mexico. We told each other it was so we could bear the heat, the dust, the poverty, but it was simply because we liked to drink. Max always got drunker faster than I did, which made for some much needed comedy, but then he'd turn mean, which wasn't funny at all. Anyway, like I was saying, we were drunk in Mexico and it started to rain. Max had the genius idea that we should strip and play in the rain, which is how I ended up in jail, which is where I'm calling you from. Do you think you could bail me out? Max can stay in jail. I'm leaving him as soon as I get out of here, and I'm never coming back to Mexico again.
Just a start. Just something that popped into my head one morning at 3 am when I couldn't sleep or was fighting sleep and was bored with television. I realize there are problems with that paragraph, but it feels like there's magic in it, too. Or maybe not. It's hard to judge your own writing. Well, it's hard for me to judge it anyway.
I've been watching a series on HBO. A dark, twisty series that is absorbing and deep. I've watched two seasons of it. The seasons are two distinct and separate stories played out over 8 or 9 episodes. I am disappointed that the 2nd series ended tonight. The thing is, the stories, the writing, makes me want to write. But I think I might just be in a writing phase right now because everything makes me want to write. It's either write or stalk my no-good oldest grandson on Facebook, which only serves to enrage me and want to comment on his stupid updates. As long as I don't comment again, I think everything will be okay. That is what I tell myself. The truth may turn out to be different.
Just a short exercise tonight. My brain is on fire and working too fast for my fingers to keep up.
We were drunk in Mexico. We were always drunk in Mexico. We told each other it was so we could bear the heat, the dust, the poverty, but it was simply because we liked to drink. Max always got drunker faster than I did, which made for some much needed comedy, but then he'd turn mean, which wasn't funny at all. Anyway, like I was saying, we were drunk in Mexico and it started to rain. Max had the genius idea that we should strip and play in the rain, which is how I ended up in jail, which is where I'm calling you from. Do you think you could bail me out? Max can stay in jail. I'm leaving him as soon as I get out of here, and I'm never coming back to Mexico again.
Just a start. Just something that popped into my head one morning at 3 am when I couldn't sleep or was fighting sleep and was bored with television. I realize there are problems with that paragraph, but it feels like there's magic in it, too. Or maybe not. It's hard to judge your own writing. Well, it's hard for me to judge it anyway.
I've been watching a series on HBO. A dark, twisty series that is absorbing and deep. I've watched two seasons of it. The seasons are two distinct and separate stories played out over 8 or 9 episodes. I am disappointed that the 2nd series ended tonight. The thing is, the stories, the writing, makes me want to write. But I think I might just be in a writing phase right now because everything makes me want to write. It's either write or stalk my no-good oldest grandson on Facebook, which only serves to enrage me and want to comment on his stupid updates. As long as I don't comment again, I think everything will be okay. That is what I tell myself. The truth may turn out to be different.
Just a short exercise tonight. My brain is on fire and working too fast for my fingers to keep up.
