wish you were here

Yay. Editing is done. Much printing will be done tomorrow.

I’ve been thinking about the concept of being sad lately. I always have this feeling that there’s something bigger waiting for me. I seem to always have this sad look on my face because sometimes, honestly, even if I’m with the people I love, I’d rather be doing something else.

It’s a difficult thing to overcome the things we’ve etched in ourselves from childhood. For me it’s been called overweight; and ever since my childhood, I’ve had this connection that my station in life is connected solely to my appearance. It’s not so much now, because saying I couldn’t finish a novel because I’m fat is so fucking stupid I wouldn’t know where to start on that.

Not so much now, but every once in awhile, I’ll have someone try and tell me that maybe that sad look on my face is because I still have these issues. (Mind you, I’m not really that much overweight. In my defence I do come from a short, stocky family, and I have been on exersise regimens where I’ve lost 10-12 pounds with no real visible results.) In a way, I’ve come to accept that I have a certain body type, and that’s okay, and people love me no matter what package I’m in. But then someone with their heart in the right place will tell me that I’m sad only because of these issues, and they feel the need to tell me this.

And then I sigh, because they’ll say the same thing the others have, that you should try this or that, and I get even sadder because I’m disappointed. They want to fix me. I don’t want to be fixed. I won’t ever be fixed, that’s kinda the whole point of going through life. I’m trying to move on with things. I have shit to write.

Then it makes me sad to think that the people that are my friends now, the people that I go to for everything, have never brought these kind of things up, because they don’t care. They, like me, are trying to go through the world day by day.

I feel healthy. In my body, I feel healthy. Mentally, eh, that could use some work. But I listen to my body, abide by its clock, and attempt to face it all otherwise.

“Presidents of the United States of America do Public Domain’s Greatest Hits.” Brilliant.

Erg. Up late writing articles and editing the novel because I made the mistake of getting an NES emulator on my PC. (Shhh, don’t tell anybody.)

I made a huge stack of Next Things I Need to Work On While I’m Editing the Novel: a screenplay that I plan on adapting into a novel, a couple of short stories, and ideas floating around for poems (for which I have nothing new for tomorrow night). So. That means I should be busy. Should. Be. Busy. Dammit.

I want to have a fresh, edited copy of the novel done by the end of this week, but preferrably by Wednesday; which, by all accounts, can be done. But will it? is the burning question.

Koufax, Audio Learning Center, Piebald, and Hey Mercedes all rock my socks.

And goodnight.

This is better spoken out loud. I think. It was read last night.

go yr own

I just wanna talk
to my father.

the sun’s been setting on friendships
all these years
and I just wanna talk
to my father.

feel like trust is rusting away
with every man
every day
and I just wanna talk
to my father.

it’s been said that girls
are more viscious in bathrooms
but truly
it’s been the boys
depolying the runaround
just like my mother
and my father.

I know yr thinking      she’s bitter
bitching about which fuckup
got stuck up her arse,
but my past is my past
and the last thing I need
is broken trust
and torn silence
when I just wanna talk
to my father.

these days I paint myself into corners
distrusting lust
’cause I have a crush on this guy
and I don’t know why
and I wish I could talk
to my father.

the weight is greater
when made with pain and hate
especially directed inward,
but I’m trying to abide
by in insides
’cause keeping it in makes you sick
and that’s when I start talking
to my father.

conversations always erase backgrounds
and I’m astounded
by god’s language
in symbols
the depths cannot be fathomed
and atoms are planets
to ghosts like my father’s.

ask and you shall recieve
and what you hate
is still what you believe
and everyone has a path to grieve
as I did with my mother
and father.

so fuck yr ouija boards
and soaring peace doves
shitting on yr windshield,
yield to oncoming traffic.
after it’s all said and done
the one thing setting
is the sun
and the eyes of yr mother
and father.

some will tell you what to say
but today is yr day
not to play nice
rolling the dice to wake up
in the morning
and mourning is just another ritual
to fix your inner pearl
and mine is shiny and bright
like the light of my father.

A nice surprise this evening. I went to a slam at Jitter’s in Green Valley, to see the Las Vegas team go against the Long Beach team. Only one of the LBC crew showed up so it was an all-out slam, random sign up and the choice of original or someone else’s material. So after some cajoling, I sign up, and I end up being the second person to go. I read a poem I did on Monday night, which I’ll post tomorrow.

I end up getting second place, getting pounced upon by the wonderful (and more deserving) Andy Kenyon. My prize? A feature, probably to be done sometime at the end of September.

Believe me, I was shocked. I was just getting up there for shits and giggles and now I’m being recognized. Scary, I tell ya.

I just had to call my editor to tell him that I can’t cover a venue’s last night because I’m going to Hey Mercedes on Saturday. And I’m on the list: normally I wouldn’t really care, but I like Hey Mercedes, and I know they’re just a bunch of working guys. I would’ve gladly paid to get in otherwise.

So I pretty much finished up editing my manuscript by hand, now I just gotta go in a fix it all on the computer, then start making copies for people. Actually, it’d be easier to email it to people, so if I’ve talked to you about it, lemme know. Then it’s off for some rewrites, which I’m half-heartedly looking forward to.

Meanwhile there’s other ideas that I’d like to start on, but I don’t want to get things confused yet.

God this bruise on my arm is terrible.

I’d been putting it off for a little while, but I’m going back to my yoga routine. Now that I feel like things are a little more in order, I need to chill, you know, stretch some muscles out.

And now I gotta plan something to cook. Good luck.

Jesus, it was pretty obvious by my horrid skills last night that I need to go back to bowling for awhile. This whole writing novels thing makes my average suffer greatly.

But I was there for post-breakup support, which, you know, everyone needs. (And no, I don’t mean that in the little strumpet way you’re probably thinking. When people have bad days, they need people around. Get your minds out of gutters, kids.) Besides, other friends showed up so I could hear one of the messages from the now 69 phone calls made since last Thursday. A number apropo, I think.

Not to mention the heroin needle-looking scar and bruise on my arm from Monday. Friggin’ rookies. And the worst part is that they can’t even take it. Halfway done and then they have to destroy it. (I’m also, well, you know, Changing the Oil, but I don’t feel like I’m going to die this time, so that’s a good thing. And don’t sit there and shake your head thinking TMI. It’s my blog. I’m a chick. I bleed. Fuck off.)

Man, I’m already having one of those days…

Heh. I was thinking of this last night. Now that I’m done with this novel I can get started on the other stuff I had running through my head before about other stories. That’s a little scary.

Ack. This should have been posted yesterday.

But my first draft is finished.

Today’s been a smiley day. Went to work, got shit done, tried to give blood (but an E for effort anyway, even if the needle got clotted halfway through), went back to work, got more shit done, went down to Roma to write, finished a poem and finished that first draft. Got propositioned for reading poetry on a radio show and got to argue about the semantics (is that the right word?) of workshopping. I even got an hour in on the Playstation.

Fuckin’ A, I rule.

Fuck, so now what?