The Unswung Bat

Tuesday, April 03, 2007
 
Every Essay Makes it Worse

I'm writing an essay about...never mind. You don't care what it's about. I don't care what it's about. I can't remember the last time I really loved writing something. I'm sure it was long ago, I just can't use my brain properly right now, so I can't remember.

And I'm only half-done. Oh Fuck. Someone shoot me in the face. Seriously, I'm sure I'll be fine. It'll wake me up.

*** *** ***

Wow, my eyes must have been pretty bloodshot, or my mind awfully bruised, to have left that saying how every essay "make it" worse. As it is it's a pretty damned shoddy thing to say, but at least it's grammatical.

On other notes, I do believe that Oscar Wilde never actually died, but instead flies across the face of the planet, possibly travelling through the interwebs through means obscurely technological and sufficiently witty, fighting evil and making eyes at things.

After this essay, I've two more books needed read for another essay, after a fiction thing and an exam. I might be a news editor as of tomorrow morn—later this morning. I might be a comment editor. I might have a news piece to throw together on the fast.

Growth, pressure, conditioning, tensility, catching, vine-clearing, lightning and the instinct of recoil. Five hundred pounds of spanish moss (the lower case denoting) hanging like a bag of pennies. Soft active ground and a boardwalk. Looking across the continent to the other coast (Pacific) and a dry room of wood the color of skin, of wooden shutters and heavy books palming the varnished clerical desk and lighted in slats that wash their color, and the smell of fuzzy green from a rock-pond nearby and drawer handles the color of worn pennies, and a hand at the back of the heavy neck.

I wonder when the branch breaks.



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