(no subject)
It's Labor Day and I get time and a half at work for my eight hour shift. I get paid at the end of the week, finally I'll be able to afford those cigarettes. School starts tomorrow for my friends who have yet to graduate (young as I was last year) and I'm not sure how much hair I'll be pulling out between the hours when they all leave and I head off for work. My friends who have graduated (old like I am) are all gone now and I feel cosmically left out. I missed out on the whole moving experience. Shopping for the dorm and groceries and books and registering for classes. All that has to wait until this spring.
My friend was stabbed two days ago at a wedding reception. This friend whom I love dearly, who is a large part of my life and who has seen my tears (one of three others), had a knife thrown at him. I've had to tell the story to my mother, my friend's mother, and the police...twice. So sadly I will not regale you with the full tale of the knife-throwing adventure; just know that there was much blood....much blood. He's fine and safe and his mother and I are keeping him behind the house's walls away from any more drunken idiots but still there is that small stab of panic I feel. I'm the one who bandages his wound. The ointment and the tape and the gauze and the making of make-shift ice packs; that's all me. Last night at the police station the officer encouraged him to go get the wound looked at and have a stitch put it in, it would make the charges more serious...yeah..the charges that he's not pressing. We walked out the station ahead of my friend's mother and I put my arm around him and he was swearing about emergency rooms and I said, "I'm taking care of the wound just fine." and his response was, much to my delight and smiling, "Yeah, you are." I love him. He knows that. I vaguely remember after the knife was thrown standing up in front of him (who was defenseless as he had his arms duct taped to his sides..don't ask). I stood between him and the drunken idiot who dared throw a knife at my friend. I don't remember the last time I shook that badly. It's quieted down some now, work will resume today, school tomorrow. And the wound is healing well. What a life I lead.
I'm up to 43 poems on my word processor. I'm proud and overwhelmed with the amount of writing and editing that takes. I think I should get up to 50 before even thinking of publications. Which could mean another two to three years.
My friend was stabbed two days ago at a wedding reception. This friend whom I love dearly, who is a large part of my life and who has seen my tears (one of three others), had a knife thrown at him. I've had to tell the story to my mother, my friend's mother, and the police...twice. So sadly I will not regale you with the full tale of the knife-throwing adventure; just know that there was much blood....much blood. He's fine and safe and his mother and I are keeping him behind the house's walls away from any more drunken idiots but still there is that small stab of panic I feel. I'm the one who bandages his wound. The ointment and the tape and the gauze and the making of make-shift ice packs; that's all me. Last night at the police station the officer encouraged him to go get the wound looked at and have a stitch put it in, it would make the charges more serious...yeah..the charges that he's not pressing. We walked out the station ahead of my friend's mother and I put my arm around him and he was swearing about emergency rooms and I said, "I'm taking care of the wound just fine." and his response was, much to my delight and smiling, "Yeah, you are." I love him. He knows that. I vaguely remember after the knife was thrown standing up in front of him (who was defenseless as he had his arms duct taped to his sides..don't ask). I stood between him and the drunken idiot who dared throw a knife at my friend. I don't remember the last time I shook that badly. It's quieted down some now, work will resume today, school tomorrow. And the wound is healing well. What a life I lead.
I'm up to 43 poems on my word processor. I'm proud and overwhelmed with the amount of writing and editing that takes. I think I should get up to 50 before even thinking of publications. Which could mean another two to three years.