Andare, Partire, Tornare ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I slap you smartly with my green hands Sweet merciful crap. Finding a box of old poems, letters, and other writing sure has a way of bringing you back down to earth. Last night, while excavating for some other stuff in my mother-in-law's basement, I came across a cache of old stuff that I knew I had saved, but hadn't reread in years and years. Ouch. Ok, some of the poetry is not horrid. But a lot of it makes me wince and squint at it while I'm holding it gingerly by the fingertips. Persia, how did you ever have the audacity to praise any of my writing? I'm looking over it, and it's crap. Especially when I see a lot of the searing and observant stuff you were writing at the same time. We're talking high school here, people. And I had no handle on what constituted good dialogue. On the other hand, I now have a compulsion to reinstate the Bob story contest, and offer some sort of gimcrack prize for. More on Bob in another entry, I think. I also found a small collection of cards and love notes from an ex-boyfriend. They still seem dear to me, mostly because he was about the best thing I had going back then, and I cherish that memory. And it's nice to keep these sorts of things, although I'm no doubt doing it in the wrong way - they aren't tied up with a velvet ribbon or scented with lavender. More nostalgia - I found an old video tape of me and my little sister competing in a horse show (me, basic beginner jumps, her, a Tiny Tots class where everybody got a blue ribbon. I was 14, she was 4). My god, does that feel strange - looking back at it. (And once again, I was angry looking back at my skinny little self to remember that at this time, my mom was constantly telling me I was fat. Makes me want to bite.) Here's a poem I wrote, one of the ones that I just found yesterday, which is a satire on another girl's poetry. We were all required to do this sort of thing as a final project. (Note - the class was useful in that I ended up reading and writing a lot of poetry. It was useless in helping me gague what was good, how to fix rough patches, and what was cliche and what was new and fresh.) Marshalling my resources Weird, eh? But I kind of like it. Starting to freak out about the slide exam. *eeeeep* May consider breaking a body part to get out of taking it. But then, a Certain Professor will be back (he's not there to pick slides for this test) and my chances of doing better are signifigantly upped if he's not grading. Choices, choices. 9:53 a.m. - 2002-02-13 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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