I'm behind the times. Everyone uses Twitter, Facebook, Myspace--all the things that make too much room for my vanity. I realize the only way for anyone to know what's going with me is to update this thing. There's a strange power in isolation, though. As in, hey, I don't want you to know what's up with me. As in, "Whatever happened to Ellis Purdie?" "I seriously have no idea." That kind of thing. I guess that's vanity too. I can't get away from it.
I'm feeling nostalgic tonight, however. Hell, I've been browsing Jackson Prep's webpage, looking at the faces of my old teachers, and missing them. I Myspace stalked Bethany Heath, gandered at all of her photos, and then missed her too. Denley didn't answer the phone yesterday. She might be mad I didn't make it to my God daughter's first birthday. I'll give her some time on that one. (Holy shit, I have a God daughter).
Really though, things are sort of hectic, but in the best of ways. I don't really even like life if I can't be swamped. I discovered Haruki Murakami this semester. He's the bane of my existence right now, but I love him. There isn't enough criticism on the guy to build a small campfire, but people he's amazing, and you scholars out there need to get to writing about him. I'm just going to try to write LIKE him...as in gorgeous, simple, sorta perfect, and totally heartbreaking.
Small wonderful things keep happening. As in, Sun Kil Moon on my sound system, my front door open to a breezy and sunny day, and my cat stretched out and lounging on my porch. I don't know if that's getting anything across to you, but you might have to be here. Speaking of cats, there's this blind cat that lives inside the independent bookstore downtown. His name is Patch and his eyes look like slivers of moon. I spread Friskies treats across the floor for him and he crunches them between his teeth, then rubs across me and purrs.
I read a whole lot, and should write more than I do, but maybe that's how it will always be. I submitted my work to a publication recently and so begins the many rejection letters to come in my lifetime. They say after a while they stop meaning anything, if you get enough of them.
I think of some people so often, and wouldn't know what to say if I saw them.
I'm a little tired.
I'm feeling nostalgic tonight, however. Hell, I've been browsing Jackson Prep's webpage, looking at the faces of my old teachers, and missing them. I Myspace stalked Bethany Heath, gandered at all of her photos, and then missed her too. Denley didn't answer the phone yesterday. She might be mad I didn't make it to my God daughter's first birthday. I'll give her some time on that one. (Holy shit, I have a God daughter).
Really though, things are sort of hectic, but in the best of ways. I don't really even like life if I can't be swamped. I discovered Haruki Murakami this semester. He's the bane of my existence right now, but I love him. There isn't enough criticism on the guy to build a small campfire, but people he's amazing, and you scholars out there need to get to writing about him. I'm just going to try to write LIKE him...as in gorgeous, simple, sorta perfect, and totally heartbreaking.
Small wonderful things keep happening. As in, Sun Kil Moon on my sound system, my front door open to a breezy and sunny day, and my cat stretched out and lounging on my porch. I don't know if that's getting anything across to you, but you might have to be here. Speaking of cats, there's this blind cat that lives inside the independent bookstore downtown. His name is Patch and his eyes look like slivers of moon. I spread Friskies treats across the floor for him and he crunches them between his teeth, then rubs across me and purrs.
I read a whole lot, and should write more than I do, but maybe that's how it will always be. I submitted my work to a publication recently and so begins the many rejection letters to come in my lifetime. They say after a while they stop meaning anything, if you get enough of them.
I think of some people so often, and wouldn't know what to say if I saw them.
I'm a little tired.
posted by Ellis at 8:07 PM
1 Comments:
Call me.
-court
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