Some nights I really can't fathom coming home from a day of tracking, cataloguing, deciphering, and reciting the events of the times, then plunking myself down in front of the keyboard and doing it some more.
But the fact is I could just write stories and stories upon story.
About girls. And girls and news. And rock and roll and girls. Sometimes dogs.
Women, of course, to be more literary. But today’s Sex in the City dames who want to have it all would still want to be called girls anyway, despite the changes wrought by modern feminism. Hanging on to the cult of youth I suppose.
It seems one minute we’re languishing in misery and loneliness, screaming out to foul empty heaven where the cries disappear into the black hole the minute they leave our lungs.
Then a next moment in the cycle comes filled with vicious and passionate dramas of every shape and color, and everything is moving too fast too keep track of because sometimes opportunity doesn't knock, it bashes you over the head.
I would love nothing more than to lash these experiences together into a template for success - or failure - but that has yet to be written and it probably won’t be by me, since I don’t know how it all quite pans out yet.
But I figure I need to write it down. If I can't write the Greatest American Novel I can at least rip it off with my own skewed version and put my name on it.
Like music right? Twisting the words in a different way because they're mine. 1-4-5. Easy.
But blogs do not beg for details, cause there it is "out there," and like music, and art and writing, I hate and will continue to be unsatisifed with my current output due to this crippling obsession with perfectionism.
So perhaps I'll post them from time to time, days long past, names blurred and details re-remembered for mass consumption. Safer that way.
The second gymnast I met in Eugene was a crazy bird who had her own video production company. She came to some of our shows, and somehow knew us through the radio station. I gave her a ride home one night in my Subaru station wagon. As the sun was coming up I tried to tell her that I had to leave, get home. We made out as I sat in the front seat. She stole the keys out of the ignition and shoved them down her pants, then pushed me backward until the seat broke off of the floor.
I fixed it.
About a year later my wife-to-be met this one. She somehow knew everything but the details.
