(no subject)
The longer away from home I am, the more aware of my own little... quirks I become. It's one thing, spending the evening in the privacy of your own home, in your chenille bathrobe, smoking a little grass and losing all sense of direction and purpose in your life. The real clincher had been the escape of wife number three. The last straw. The indicator that I'd let things get... a little more pathetic than I'd originally intended. And then there was Sara. Sara was perfect in all the ways I hadn't been expecting. Sara was perfect for the simple fact that she wasn't. And, not for the first time in my life, I let the one good thing going for me just slip away.
I haven't been able to recreate my book. Not a word. I woke up one morning last week and stubbed my toe on a brand new IBM Selectric typewriter, extra ink ribbons and all the filler paper I could ever want... unless I decide to pen another epic... just sitting there at the foot of my bed, like it belonged there. I've always had a fondness for typewriters. There's something viseral, jarring and lingering about banging away on the keys. The clanging, pounding chimes and the sharp smell of ink. I've always preferred it over a pen and paper, and as cliche as it sounds, I'm too damn old to learn the new tricks of technology.
But I miss the sun at my back, sitting in front of the bay windows of our home, light filtering onto the page, and the stark walls of the dormitory serve only to remind me how battered and dull James Leer believes my heart has become. Why I'm dwelling on the words of a boy who spewed utter bullshit at me for the better part of two days, I'll never know. Or perhaps I just won't admit it to myself.
It's a nice day, just like every day, so I drag an end table out onto the lawn outside the compound and set up my typewriter there, hoping for a little inspiration. But there's a more important matter to attend to...
Poe and I have come to an impasse.
He belongs to me now. It's a fact I've come to accept. Poe, on the other hand, isn't quite as complaisant. Blind, he still manages to jump up onto my table with his lumpish front paws, staring blankly over the top of the page in my direction. Jaw set. Challenging. Waiting for me to overstep my bounds.
Sooner or later the confrontation will come, and when it does, I have no doubt who will win this time.
[Got a killer headache, so I'll be on slowtime for a while, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up. Open to anyone. LT/ST of course welcome. Once again, Poe is harmless to everyone but Grady.]
I haven't been able to recreate my book. Not a word. I woke up one morning last week and stubbed my toe on a brand new IBM Selectric typewriter, extra ink ribbons and all the filler paper I could ever want... unless I decide to pen another epic... just sitting there at the foot of my bed, like it belonged there. I've always had a fondness for typewriters. There's something viseral, jarring and lingering about banging away on the keys. The clanging, pounding chimes and the sharp smell of ink. I've always preferred it over a pen and paper, and as cliche as it sounds, I'm too damn old to learn the new tricks of technology.
But I miss the sun at my back, sitting in front of the bay windows of our home, light filtering onto the page, and the stark walls of the dormitory serve only to remind me how battered and dull James Leer believes my heart has become. Why I'm dwelling on the words of a boy who spewed utter bullshit at me for the better part of two days, I'll never know. Or perhaps I just won't admit it to myself.
It's a nice day, just like every day, so I drag an end table out onto the lawn outside the compound and set up my typewriter there, hoping for a little inspiration. But there's a more important matter to attend to...
Poe and I have come to an impasse.
He belongs to me now. It's a fact I've come to accept. Poe, on the other hand, isn't quite as complaisant. Blind, he still manages to jump up onto my table with his lumpish front paws, staring blankly over the top of the page in my direction. Jaw set. Challenging. Waiting for me to overstep my bounds.
Sooner or later the confrontation will come, and when it does, I have no doubt who will win this time.
[Got a killer headache, so I'll be on slowtime for a while, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up. Open to anyone. LT/ST of course welcome. Once again, Poe is harmless to everyone but Grady.]