Sunday, September 2, 2012

Sketches of My Sweetheart, the Drunk


I am writing more. it's just happening. I am writing two stories for ePublication. They are totally shit, genre fiction--but have potential to make a quick dime or two. And then there is the longer thing (not at all even close to calling it a novel...) that is more like a response (call-and-response) to We Need to Talk About Kevin.

Then there's the blog.

Ok, so here's what's up, I need to take more time for myself. I keep getting sick and it's because my life is out of balance. I need to get more exercise and more time to write and read. 

Why is time so fucked up? When I was a yout(h) I used to burn time. Like I was always "killing" time, waiting for friends to meet me, waiting for night to come, waiting for my mom to leave, waiting for school to end, waiting for godot. Now, I never have enough time. Does time actually go faster the closer we get to death? I don't think so. I have seen people die and dying and it doesn't seem fast. It seems to drag. Maybe time is slower at the ends (if your life was a line) so, it's slower at the end and at the beginning. Do you remember being a kid and waiting for your grandparents to show up and being so excited that you would get ready and run downstairs and sit on the couch and stare out the window? those moments seemed hours. (is that just "a watched pot never boils" coming true?) Now it seems that when I'm waiting for company, that they are always here well before I'm ready for them. House still a mess, hair wet, cheerios all over the carpet.... 

So, how to get more time to/for myself? Where does that time come from? 


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