The sky is high. The Czar is far.
“Russian squirrel pack ‘kills dog.'”
You thought that what you seriously had to worry about was bad vodka, the FSB, and the FSB drunk on bad vodka.
You thought that polonium was a truly ingenious secret weapon.
You thought that the worst aspect of the Russian environment was the bitter fucking cold.
Oh how wrong and deluded and innocent you were.
College tuition makes Jill want to cry, but I have been forced to think about a more drastic response. And although I am not particularly religious, I think I understand now why despair is considered to be a terrible sin.
Would it be OK to say that life after college, so far, has not brought me much happiness?
And loans aren’t even all that is to it, although they certainly play a huge part in this drama. No, it’s something inside me that seems to have withered. There’s something about all this purposelessness and these awful mornings, with the radio alarm playing some stupid 70’s feel-good ballad for the millionth time in a row.
I’ve shrunk in on myself. I’ve become the sort of person who cradles her beer like her child after work. I write horrible stories, about horrible things, and I enjoy it: something terrible happens, to a friend, in the news, and I think – “I’ll put it in the book.” I’m looking at the horror of Ipswitch, and I’m going “ooh, aah.” I’m looking at the tragedy in the Oregon snow, and I’m wondering how it’s going to compare to my latest indulgence – Scott Smith’s The Ruins. Of course, I already have written half a book – and look how that one’s turned out: a limbless husk with no plot.
If it wasn’t for the people I love, I don’t know what would have happened to me by now. I would probably be on some cargo ship in the Indian Ocean, performing sexual acts with capuchin monkeys on the main deck for some smack. Or worse.
Someone likes me. Today, I planned to write about what a travesty it is that none of my family members/friends/co-workers are even remotely considering giving me a naked (and perhaps caramel-covered) Orlando Bloom for Christmas, but I have now realized that there are gifts out there that far outstrip (har har) celebrity flesh.
Thank you. 🙂
And thanks to HP (no, those initials do not stand for Harry Potter).
P.S. This is probably a good time to say – I’m working on a novel, baby, yeah!
“This is the fear, this is the dread, these are the contents of my head.” ~ Annie Lennox
I’ve heard a person ones compare publishing poetry to stripping – since both are so bloody revealing, and it’s easier to make a fool of yourself than you’d think (no doubt our friends the Norwegians would agree somewhat). This is precisely the reason why you will never see any original poetry of mine grace this blog, or any of it’s future incarnations (incarnations – if a certain Ms. MK has her way with me, that is).
Oh dear, I’ve said “never.” I am going to get punished for that, and so will the innocent bystanders.
It’s good to know that at this point, the great well of my superiors, the one that’s firmly lodged in my head (between the frontal lobe and that curious “I’MINDEBTI’MINDEBTI’MINDEBT” bit) has not yet run dry.
Jabberwocky
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought–
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.~ Lewis Carroll.
Chelsea hangs on, but Sheva falls apart. It’s raining in my favourite London neighbourhood, and I feel as though there are many years of toil ahead of me – until I can walk back from the game in my wellingtons and say, “I’m home.” Sundays and football always make me want to be home – until I realize that I have no idea where that might be.
*pout*
Natalia A. 