featuring three (3) not-quite cat calls, entirely zero (0) proofreading, and more lists (!) like this
today i'm gonna tell it like it happened. i stopped writing my morning pages about a year ago. i had fallen off the wagon a couple times but at the start of the pandemic, i had a burst of creative energy. lockdown? what a good time to MAKE THIGNS, i thought, so naively. maybe it was just my own crutch that was the trouble - i had gotten accustomed to treating morning pages as a journal rather than a creative experiment (most of the time anyway). and then, april 2020, i had absolutely nothing to report. i gave up almost immediately. now i think i'm ready to try again but i don't know how to start. this can't be it, it isn't even morning! but it's words in whole sentences and that'll do, pig. last night while high i scribbled down some half idea that good writing is like a light fingering. just a soft pleasant tickle. maybe like tingles across your skin and you want the feeling backwards and forwards at the same itme - past present and future all at once. well taht's what you get when you're high i guess! bull bunk! but i'll tell you, i was walking down the street, walking other people's dogs in exchange for green beans, as one does, when i heard a holler. not a cat call, in my overalls, oh no. a construction dude, although fully invisible, seemed to holler to his construction dude brethren, "WHY THE FUCK HAS SHE GOT ONE PANTS LEG ROLLED UP??" oh, that IS me. huh. the follow up question could have been anything, honestly. "IS SHE A DYKE?" / "IS THAT FASHION?" / "IS IT ALLOWED EVEN?" and so on. i'll never know and neither will you. but what struck me about it most is how BORED this guy (and therefore, everyone in existence) must be. what is exciting about one pants leg slightly higher than the other? the truth is that they were both hitched up but one fell back down and i didn't bother to fix it. the truth is even more bored than that guy. so i suppose me and my overalls were happy to do them this service.
a beautiful lady on a motor bike may or may not have called out my name. we both turned to look over our shoulders as we continued in opposite directions. did this really happen? maybe it wasn't my name at all.
at the stop light, a teenager crosses the street in front of me, carrying an empty orange fanta bottle. ever a raccoon, i scan the block for trash and recycling receptacles. i'm thinking, golly look at this kid, carrying his plastic all the way home to the recycling bin, what a good guy, someone out there really does care after all. and then he walks straight into a sidewalk bump of tall grass and "effortlessly" lets the bottle slip from his grasp. two steps and he even does a double take, perhaps to make sure it was a good drop. "NOT COOL, DUDE" i yell after him, but for once, my windows are rolled up and he can't hear me. my raccoon eyes shoot rays of guilt at his back but he doesn't turn around again. i turn left and leave it too.
at home the war against the ants rages on. i'm just thrilled it's spring again and i can see and sing again. the rest of the week looks something like this list: nonograms, group therapy, cheez its, menstrual cramps and motrin, too much hair (me), the smallest hairball (dr. g willikers), K/D kibble, avoiding doing taxes, 7 fans (window, ceiling, and standing) at a time, funderemployment, sandalwood incense, underwear in the bathtub, IPAs, illegible stoned scribbles, and 6 versions of daniel johnston's "walking the cow" plus my own rendition. i need to do the litter box. i need to do kind of a lot.
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