Work. Well I got a small independent contractor project for this week. That's good. Well, honestly, it's simply fucking marvelous. I'm nervous to do it. But I'm diving in bright and early on the project tomorrow with a finished memo-like work product to be delivered on Wednesday. Yaaay.
Faulkner Fiends. I think maybe 40% of all lawyers are just artists in an active hibernation-like state where they function as normal beings in their daily lives but somehow convince their artist selves to sleep. How many years of piano, theatre, and dance can one person give up for legal unemployment? Nearly every single attorney I know who has been practicing some time has some amazing creative talent. They play classical guitar, take professional caliber photos, have finished novels, or pursue similar creative endeavors. Almost like a sign from the Powers That Be, the Gods, or whoever is in charge of this ship of fools, at a happy hour with a fellow attorney I discover his fascination with "The Sound and the Fury" and how he wanted to bring Quentin's chapter to film.
The Task at Hand. So what on earth would I do if I didn't have to worry about money? Well, I suppose I'd live in a small farmhouse with my husband and dog. I'd have a garden. Spend lots of time reading. Maybe learn how to play an instrument other than the piano. Write my representatives more frequently to keep them on track. Maybe I'd consider teaching English- someone has to keep the literary mysteries alive. Maybe I'd finally write. I'd visit my relatives more often and bring them food (they love when I cook something to bring them).
So What Stands in the Way? I don't know. Maybe I don't wake up early enough to work on a novel. Maybe I just can't keep my head together to get work done. But surely that can't be quite right. I know I can do a substantial amount of work when it's expected of me (law school, passing the bar). So maybe no one is expecting me to do anything. Maybe I just lack a big idea. I'll have to think of one up. I'll let you know when I do.
Holler. It's my favorite word of the week. Not like "Holla at your boy." But like "She just started hollerin' at me." The correct use of the word is either "holler" or "hollerin'" but NEVER "hollering."
Snipet. Something I wrote this week: "I am the flash of ink, the first reed put to paper and the last key stroke. / I am your hand bringing letters to life: a memory, a note, a question, a plea - the yearning to proclaim." It will be part of something larger, I am sure.
Mixes. Jessica made me a mix for my birthday last year and, it's official, I'm addicted to it. She made the cover art out of a picture she took with her pin hole camera. It was taken while we were in college (she built the camera for an art class). It's us, everything in focus except for the things moving (which is funny because we are laughing and so our faces and heads are blurs but out legs and feet on the curb of the road are crystal clear).
That's all I know. The list format is just plain convenient. My attention is so scattered these days, that's about all I can focus on. Surely the topics are somehow connected.
Oh. And coincedentally, I redid my bathroom between the last post and this post. I promise never to do that again (at least in the near future).
