now I'm trying not to fall asleep
Your mind creeps up on darkness. Your body goes limper and limper. The edge of nothingness. Noise yanks you back; the cat strolling across your belly towards his own pillow breaks the spell.
But the hooks are in, the haziness, the fuzz filling your brain. You lay back down, physically unable to focus on anything. The world seems to continue normally, but a portion of your mind notes quietly that Elvis has no reason to be sitting casually on your dresser, noshing on a cheesburger.
Then, the lightswitch goes off, and the mystery has you. Consenting unconsciousness, willingly abandoned to, the upper thoughts simply gone.
Where does my mind go when my body doesn't know where it is?
Um, yeah, Amy Liz. As long as you don't mind being disappointed by lots of blather about television and such.
I posted this in my livejournal, but I thik I'll post it here, too.
If I am a poet today, it's because of this man: Ted Walker.
Ted was a fine writer, and more importantly (to me at least) an excellent teacher. There is not a thing I know about stringing words and images and syllables together that he, ultimately, didn't teach me. I still regularly quote things he said to me about writing, both in conversation and when I teach.
Ted made me believe in language, and encouraged my tendency to stand up to authority. (You should have seen the look of pride on his face when I told off the Academic Dean in front of a faculty meeting!)
I was Ted's last student--his last writing class at Arundel before retiring was my independent advanced poetry workshop.
I just found out that he passed away a month ago, and there's an ache at that loss now that defies language. Which, of course--as Ted taught me--is the very nature of poetry.
Goodbye, Ted. I've missed you for years, and now I miss you even more.
Sigh.
Yeah. I know what you mean.
Dudes, this is honker.
I've just been invited to submit to a short story anthology - this is invitation only, since it's eleven stories total - the theme of which is, get this, the Four Clowns of the Apocalypse.
I think I want to. I should probably get away from this enchanting loony picture in my head, which features three clowns a la Krusty, called something like Crankypants, Bloomers and Eyepatch, all riding tricycles, and the fourth one, Doug, on a giant unicycle with the Flaming Pie of Justice, or the Big Red Bicycle Horn of Righteousness.
Any suggestions would be welcomed. And no, I'm not kidding.
That is so awesome.
You could write about the Four Clowns, and how the fourth clown, Doug, wants to get out of the game, but they pull him back for one last apocalypse.
HA! P-C, I love that. And knowing my tendency to want to explore the eternal verities, I'd likely wind up having him sulking over why the universe won't let him just go squirt seltzer at unsuspecting insurance agents.
Doug, the Sulkiest Clown of the Apocalypse. He rides the White Unicycle.
So what's Doug doing in the meantime?
What he really wants to do is direct.
Doug anagrams to Godu, the Clown God. Doug has Higher aspirations.
