"... the secret ingreidient was coffee."
we don't need to be in love with each other. just me with you.
i just read the preface of kurt vonnegut's "palm sunday / welcome to the monkeyhouse," and have been readily blown away. i almost fear reading the rest of it and being disappointed at some point (by what i can't imagine- i'd just hate for it to happen). a few excerpts:
"i have been a writer since 1949. i am self taught. i have no theories about writing that might help others. when i write i simply become what i seemingly must become. i am six foot two and weigh nearly two hundred pounds and am badly coordinated, except when i swim. all that meat does the writing.
in the water i am beautiful."
/wets self
there is more; this preface is possibly the best i have ever read, though i don't believe i've read nearly enough in general- who ever does? i have gone over it over a dozen times in different corners of my room. i even sat in my tiny bathroom where it echoes around nicely, reading it outloud in my best bedroom voice (i do have that going for me- if only i had the face to back it up yes?) and wondering if it will ever tire or grow old on my tongue. it hasn't in the last 3 hours.
"my only brother, eight years older than i, is a successful scientist...I remember a letter he wrote after his first child, peter, was born and brought home. "here i am," that letter began, "cleaning shit off of practically everything."
i've been making plans to study more over the summer. i've saved up the money to pay my way over for it. what will i be studying you ask? good question. to which the answer (even in my more pleasant dreams) is something unknown to me.
"my sister smoked too much. my father smoked too much. my mother smoked too much. i smoke too much. my brother used to smoke too much, and then he gave it up, which was a miracle on the order of the loaves and fishes."
so the school year is coming to an end. i find that i like my job. a lot. it's far from perfect. and they don't pay me enough or give me enough time to do it a thousand and one time better than i could and should; but i find that i don't want to quit it anyway. they have summer off anyway- good form! we teachers sometimes (every day that ends in d-a-y) talk about how much time AND OR pay increase we should be getting, to really be good at what we do. i wonder if there will ever be a time when this won't be what Vonnegot has called "slick fiction." along with a nice country and a good government i suppose. i promised myself i'd know what the fuck i'd be doing by the end of february; which God thought might be funny if He shaved of the last two or three days in the month just to see what it would to planners like me.
"i've never knew a writer's wife who wasn't beautiful."
the preface is three infinite pages too short.
i just read the preface of kurt vonnegut's "palm sunday / welcome to the monkeyhouse," and have been readily blown away. i almost fear reading the rest of it and being disappointed at some point (by what i can't imagine- i'd just hate for it to happen). a few excerpts:
"i have been a writer since 1949. i am self taught. i have no theories about writing that might help others. when i write i simply become what i seemingly must become. i am six foot two and weigh nearly two hundred pounds and am badly coordinated, except when i swim. all that meat does the writing.
in the water i am beautiful."
/wets self
there is more; this preface is possibly the best i have ever read, though i don't believe i've read nearly enough in general- who ever does? i have gone over it over a dozen times in different corners of my room. i even sat in my tiny bathroom where it echoes around nicely, reading it outloud in my best bedroom voice (i do have that going for me- if only i had the face to back it up yes?) and wondering if it will ever tire or grow old on my tongue. it hasn't in the last 3 hours.
"my only brother, eight years older than i, is a successful scientist...I remember a letter he wrote after his first child, peter, was born and brought home. "here i am," that letter began, "cleaning shit off of practically everything."
i've been making plans to study more over the summer. i've saved up the money to pay my way over for it. what will i be studying you ask? good question. to which the answer (even in my more pleasant dreams) is something unknown to me.
"my sister smoked too much. my father smoked too much. my mother smoked too much. i smoke too much. my brother used to smoke too much, and then he gave it up, which was a miracle on the order of the loaves and fishes."
so the school year is coming to an end. i find that i like my job. a lot. it's far from perfect. and they don't pay me enough or give me enough time to do it a thousand and one time better than i could and should; but i find that i don't want to quit it anyway. they have summer off anyway- good form! we teachers sometimes (every day that ends in d-a-y) talk about how much time AND OR pay increase we should be getting, to really be good at what we do. i wonder if there will ever be a time when this won't be what Vonnegot has called "slick fiction." along with a nice country and a good government i suppose. i promised myself i'd know what the fuck i'd be doing by the end of february; which God thought might be funny if He shaved of the last two or three days in the month just to see what it would to planners like me.
"i've never knew a writer's wife who wasn't beautiful."
the preface is three infinite pages too short.