Does anyone know when The CVS in Dublin, Ireland opens?
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
“Only when the last tree has been cut down; Only when the last river has been
poisoned; Only when the last fish has been caught; Only then will you find that
money cannot be eaten.”–Native American Proverb (Kudos to Rich Morrare).
I made a sale, tonight. It wasn’t a huge sale, but everybody cheered like it was when it was announced that I was going on “The Board.” I really wanted to make another sale, and I did all that I could to do such, but such did not occur. That is what tomorrow is for: to make another sale!!
Got to love a day off; when we wake up it will be hump day, already. It is supposed to be 95 degrees out tomorrow; ouch!! You know who I miss: George Harrison. He seems like he must have been one of the nicest guys on the planet. Didn’t cigarettes get him?
Up at 6:57am. One of the cats barfed up a hairball in the middle of the night onto the foot of my bed, and I kept touching it with my leg. I’m sluggish this morning, anxious for that first cup of coffee that is brewing.
Bernie, the plumber, is here, today, and is, hopefully, going to return hot water to our existence. Shawtie, is not happy about Bernie’s presence: she won’t shut up. Shawtie is a guest in our house, until next Monday, a half Pit, half Shar-Pei small in size dog with a big presence. Telling Shawtie to shut up does no good. When it comes to this barking Miss Thing, she really makes my dog Dylan seem like an angel, because Dylan will, at least, quiet down when I ask him to.
I made no sales, last night, on the phones, though I came so very close a number of times. I don’t know if that is just how it is, or if I still lack that strong closer instinct. I have to wonder if one of the better salesmen in the office would have been able to close on conversations that got away from me mostly when the price of opera tickets was brought up towards the end of my talks with folks.
Yeah Bernie, we have hot water; I can take a nice warm shower, instead of a freezing cold one, before I go to work today. Shawtie, hours later, still hasn’t shut up.
This heat is something, is it not? My poor two little air conditioners are killing themselves to keep us cool, and it is still hot in spots, like right here at my desk. I feel awesome, though, to be alive; hot, or cold, is probably way better than dead!
I find more excuses to not eat spinach, and the spinach just goes bad in my refrigerator; sad, sad, sad. Just got a letter from Georgia Power that said, due to repeated delinquencies, a deposit in the amount of $150. has been billed to your account.” Isn’t this a bit like throwing a drowning man a cement live preserver?
I just spoke with the rudest, most threatening “customer service” person that I have ever spoken with in my life; a representative of Ga. Power. I said to him, “You are the worst customer service person that I have ever gotten; have a nice night,” and then I hung up on him. I’m sure that the next call to The Utility God will yield better results. It’s fucking hot in here.
Heat takes its toll on me; I don’t weather it well, but at five a.m. I don’t even need to have the air conditioners on. I will walk the dogs before the sun comes up; there are solutions for most any issue.
Up at 7:34, but I immediately went back down until 8:57. The dogs are chomping at the bit to get outside, but they know darn well that I have to have my cup of coffee before we go. I’ve got water in my ear; I forgot when swimming, yesterday, that I need to wear ear plugs. Since I work at nights, now, I need to take my Yoga classes in the morning, and there is a great one, this morning, that I am planning to attend. Have a great day!
I guess that I wanted to be a rock star
but, instead, I was a drunk,
and I would smash the guitars
in a blackout, and wake up horrified
to see what I had done.
When I sobered up,I did not smash the guitars
but, even though I took lessons,
the guitar, and I, were never to be one.
My youngest son plays very well.
It was I, me, me, me who bought him his guitars,
and who got him into lessons,
and, of course, he who practiced, practiced, practiced.
I think that the gift of guitar is a precious one.
I hate leaf blowers
The dogs, and I, were all set for our quiet walk to the end of the street; we weren’t going for distance, we weren’t out for exercise, we were just out to let the dogs do their thing, and let me get back to composing great works of literature. The walk is always pleasant. There are bountiful trees in our hood, and many pretty flowers to look at, but this morning, a woman was out making her paycheck with a leaf blower. The noise that leaf blowers make,makes me feel as if I am dragging my teeth along a chalkboard, or chewing on tin foil. I hate leaf blowers; they seem like such an unfair, and useless machine. Can’t these folks use a rake?
Her goals are more realistic than mine
She wants to teach English
where I always wanted to write best sellers
that would have the whole world love me
but as I tried, I came to realize that
the more you get known the more people
you come to know of who don’t like you.
But come to think of it, some people
don’t like English teachers either,
so what are you to do, but be yourself,
and do the next right thing?
Who knows what time Trader Joe’s is open until tonight? I need lemons for my water, and English tea for my blood. Morisson will accompany me there, as he always does.
I used to think that once the last kid got out of high school that I would move to the big city to be discovered. New York, I thought, or San Francisco, or L.A. Surely the big time would be waiting for me there. An agent would snag me, almost immediately upon my arrival, the book would come out, and all my dreams would come true. Lights, Camera, K.
But then a weird thing happened; my dreams changed. I no longer dreamed of wealth, and fame; peace of mind, and family, started to become more important, and I started to like the idea of anonymity more than I did that of having strangers come up to me at the grocery store and ask for my autograph. People camping outside my house, started to no longer appeal to me, and I certainly did not want some crazed fan to come up to me and do to me what had happened to John Lennon.
I have one year until my youngest child graduates. She doesn’t much need me now, but I am here for her if she does. She is a Senior in high school, now. What a trip, or what a long strange trip it’s been to say it more aptly, stealing from The Grateful Dead. I don’t know what lays in store for her when she graduates, and I don’t know what lays in store for me either, at this time.
Like Casey Kasem used to say on his radio program, “American Top 40,” I’m going to keep my feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars. I have discovered myself, if no one else has. I am huge in my own mind. Does anybody want to buy a copy of, “The Delivery Guy,” or one of my poetry books?
Peace, and Love, baby. Peace, and Love.
I have a white out type product called, “Liquid Paper,” on my desk. I am happy about this. For a long time I have wanted to buy White Out, but I would always forget. Knowing that I have Liquid Paper on my desk gives me a sense of security. It doesn’t matter if The Government is watching me through my pillow, I can eradicate errors on the page written by pen. I am going to bed, now, and will get a beautiful night’s sleep. You are beautiful; you really are. Good night.
A miracle happened last night. After five years of ignoring me, of running from me when I try to pet him, my cat Jaggar curled up on the bed next to me, befpre I drifted off to sleep, and let me pet him. I have noticed advances in Jaggar’s affection towards me, recently; he has been lingering longer at my ankles than he used to when he wants something such as a cat treat. I scratched Jaggar’s back, as I was scratching my other cat Kobain’s back before I went to sleep. It was a very spiritual thing. Animals are beautiful; each one has there own special personality, and I always try to respect that.
My bike is in the shop; it took me 30 minutes to walk home from The Arts Center Station: it was a brisk, fun walk. I took the bus from our office in Buckhead, and when I got on the bus I looked around and realized that the thing all of us had in common is that we are poor. I don’t feel poor in spirit, though; I was glad to be on that air-conditioned bus, glad to be on my way home. My dogs were super glad to see me.
I’m well-caffeinated, and yet I am tired. I thought that I would be able to come home from work and transcribe some of this book that I have been writing at work, about work, from notebook to computer, but it doesn’t look like that is going to happen. What is going to happen is that I am going to take the dogs for a quick walk, and then I am going to land my head on my pillow; transcribing a great work of art will have to wait until tomorrow. Good night, my friends; sleep well.
I just got my bike back from The Shop. I have four new brake pads on it, a new chain, and a new sprocket. It rides like a new bike. I missed my bike. Marta takes an hour to an hour and a half to make the same trip to work that it takes twenty minutes on my bike to make, plus I have been missing out on the exercise that I get from my bike while I have sat on my bike. The air conditioning on the bus is nice, but the bike ride is twice as nice.
“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”
Pulling out my birth certificate, I see that I was born at 814 that my dad was from Kinnitty, Ireland, and me mum was from Dublin.The length of my mother’s pregnancy was 40 weeks, and I weighed 7 lbs. 11 oz. when I came into this world. My mother was 32 when she had me, and my dad was 42. Sad that my relationship with either of them didn’t work out.
Yoga, last night, was very difficult. I had a twenty minute bike ride to and from work, and put in three hours on the phone, immediately before hitting the Yoga mat. This, plus a quick argument with the neighbors, about some hummus that I allegedly took from them without following proper protocol, proved to be too much to let me have a good Yoga session.
At one point my instructor even said, kind of jokingly, “Do I have to think for both of us?” I was exhausted. I was in a zombie-like state, tinged with touches of anger. I could not concentrate on the work at hand. It was a terrible session, and I was elated when it was over. I am thinking of moving back to a Level 1 class, because this Level 1-2 is is full of asanas that are mostly unattainable for me.
Who cares what level you are in?
The r.em. song, “Losing My Religion,” makes me feel very spiritual.
I made my first sale last night.
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“If I’d written all the truth I knew for the past ten years, about 600 people – including me – would be rotting in prison cells from Rio to Seattle today. Absolute truth is a very rare and dangerous commodity in the context of professional journalism.”–Hunter S. Thompson