We should start a club that’s like a book club but instead of reading a book and discussing it we just open our mouth and make real words come out and by that I mean we share our feelings, which sounds easy and sounds like it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing. Nothing is the smiley shit we say everyday but don’t mean. I say so much smiley shit I don’t mean. I also don’t say so much shit I should say.
I keep staring at this box of Vegetable Masala from this company called Shan. The ingredients are in French and I want to tell you about it but a voice inside me says it’s not important. But another voice says it’s important but I can’t articulate why.
Last night under the fluorescent ceiling lights of my graduate writing class I turned over a piece of paper and scribbled: “At some point, we’re all going to die and what will this writing matter? This publishing, what will it matter? This craft, the attention to the so called craft of writing, what will it matter? Unless we fucking love love love love it, what does it matter?”
Eventually we must grow up. Choose a job. They call it a career. I feel like Peter Pan and want to elope to Neverland. I am an English teacher and have been for two years but to be honest it feels like if I were to predict, after approximately three years, at the moment I qualify for a real version of the adult teaching job, the sparkle fades into ugh.
I am on YouTube, learning a back handspring.
Where can you take surf lessons around here? Charleston?
The University of Minnesota has a PhD in Alternative Medicine. Ooo.
I ordered organic non-GMO broccoli sprouts and a sprouting kit.
Next on YouTube is to do wheel pose next to a wall, walk feet up.
I’m googling this 10-mile swim in Lake Minnetonka and I don’t even like long distance swimming but I like pushing against pain because it makes me feel close to death and that makes me feel close to life.
I’m trying to set my inner self on fire, because I take my earbuds out and all I hear is blah blah blah.