Once again, I am aloof. Online classes, you make me weep. Is there some tissue in my brain I am missing? I already know I have an abnormally small amygdala. Yikes, what next.
By the way, my favorite word for the past year has been "tacos" or more like "TACOOOOS" if we want to be politically correct. I never really understood the meaning of politically correct. Although, I know this joke has been used many-a-time, politics are not correct. Fair to say the least. Wait, that's an incomplete sentence.
I want to write another poem. Poems are fun to write because most the time you don't even know what you mean. I mean, what do I mean?
Oh, Mr. Goldfine, you don't know how much this assignment means to me.
I've been writing all day and yet, I can't manage to become tired.
Okay, okay. It's time to be serious. I will let those concerned who I am and what I'm "all about". I am agoraphobic for one. Whoo, didn't see that one coming! I am from California and moved to Maine when I was 17, one month after graduating from high school. I went to University of Maine, took advantage of the freedom from parents, and did the old-fashioned Animal House bit of criticizing the sober and raising thee havoc. Yes, thee havoc. After this, I moved to Hancock to live with my dear old folks and started working at the Hannaford in Ellsworth as the "drug lady", or so my soon-to-be husband called me. In other words, I was a Pharmacy Technician. (He was actually working in the Deli, my "Meat Man"). Let's not get into that.
So after working for several months in this cage of narcotics, I enlisted in the Air Force and was to become (get ready for it) an Airborne Linguistics Cryptologist. Yes, that is someone who interprets the evil plans of the enemy into plain English. I called it "playing Sudoku with sister planes". However, without explanation, I write simply that I was discharged and soon married to my husband, John Wayne. Okay, his name is actually John Wayne Carpenter II. Oy vey, my fingers are arthritic and I must save some room on this simulation of paper for some more rambling about my putrid existence. Til we meet again.
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3 comments:
Couldn't resist some straight autobio without the figleaf of 'tell me about your history as a writer,' eh?
There's a place for this Jackson Pollicky spatter writing, where you pull in or throw in what occurs in the faith that your instincts guide you as well as logic and that in the end a pattern or design emerges. I don't think that faith is misplaced here, but at least on this short an acquaintance I also feel an undertow pulling me to resist technique and result both.
What you're requesting is collaboration between writer and reader, my cooperation, and I have a lot to say later in the semester about alienating readers (to pull them in--and that's the line you're working here; will you remember this assignment in a couple of months when we're doing alienating techniques because this definitely is one? Please understand that for the purpose of 162 alienation is more or less a compliment. Still with me?)
No, I'll ask my mom. She's an English major.
Oh gawd, am I going to have an English major mom looking over my shoulder? Ok, I'll watch my commas and spelling.
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