Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live seem slow-witted and obvious now. If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare’s jokes I hope you won’t be insulted if I say you’re trying too hard. It’s part of growing older and the human race as a group has matured along the same lines. There are things I’ve given up on like recording funny answering-machine messages. I agree that the “I” is a pretty heavy concept and hope you won’t get uncomfortable if I should go into some deeper stuff here. Not like I’m dying for a letter from the class stoner ten years on but…ĭo you remember the way the girls would call out “love you!” conveniently leaving out the “I” as if they didn’t want to commit to their own declaration. And the pressure to simulate coolness means not asking when you don’t know, which is why kids grow ever more stupid.Ī yearbook’s endpages, filled with promises to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness of a teenager’s promise. You didn’t have to ask and that’s what cool was: the ability to deduce, to know without asking. You could tell who’d been to last night’s big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallways. If you were cool in high school you didn’t ask too many questions. I was sitting by the space heater, numbly watching you dress, and when you asked why I never wear a robe I had so many good reasons I didn’t know where to begin. It reminds me of this morning when you were getting ready for work.
How many more years will I let pass before I take the trouble to ask someone? Today is the first day of Lent and once again I’m not really sure what it is. But I’m noticing that the same people are dying over and over again, for instance, Minnie Pearl who died this year for the fourth time in four years.
Hello kitty alarm clock how to#
I know these recurring news articles are clues, flaws in the design, though I haven’t figured out how to string them together yet.
In my mind the bedroom is an amalgamation of various cold medicine commercial sets (there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand). I am in bed late at night in my house near the airport listening to the jets fly overhead, a strange wife sleeping beside me. Sometimes I’m buying a newspaper in a strange city and think “I am about to learn what it’s like to live here.” Oftentimes there’s a news item about the complaints of homeowners who live beside the airport and I realize that I read an article on this subject nearly once a year and always receive the same image: It’s one of the little disappointments that makes you think about getting away, going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables and taking a room on the square with a landlady whose hands are scored by disinfectant, telling the people you meet that you are from Alaska, and listen to what they have to say about Alaska until you have learned much more about Alaska than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables. I can’t remember being born and no one else can remember it either even the doctor who I met years later at a cocktail party. If squeezed for more information I can remember old clock radios with flipping metal numbers and an entree called Surf and Turf.Īs a way of getting in touch with my origins, every night I set the alarm clock for the time I was born, so that waking up becomes a historical reenactmentĪnd the first thing I do is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it, like when you’re riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn the pattern quickly so you don’t inadvertently resist it. Was “go out long” are what stand out now. My childhood hasn’t made good material either, mostly being a mulch of white minutes with a few stand out moments: popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer, a certain amount of pride at school everytime they called it “our sun,” and playing football when the only play You see, there is a window by my desk I stare out when I’m stuck, though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write and I don’t know why I keep staring at it. I am trying to get at something and I want to talk very plainly to you so that we are both comforted by the honesty. The one I imagine when I hear the word “hill,” and if the apocalypse turns out to be a world-wide nervous breakdown, if our five billion minds collapse at once, well I’d call that a surprise ending and this hill would still be beautiful, a place I wouldn’t mind dying alone or with you. I know it’s a bad title but I’m giving it to myself as a gift on a day nearly canceled by sunlight when the entire hill is approaching the ideal of Virginia brochured with goldenrod and loblolly and I think “at least I have not woken up with a bloody knife in my hand” by then having absently wandered one hundred yards from the house while still seated in this chair with my eyes closed.
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