Just Who is this Sukey Person?
What time is it, really? I feel like the biggest whining pile of sleepy drivel every time someone else says anything along the lines of: "Wake up, it’s five-thirty at night" or "Please don’t nap behind the wheel" or "We’ve got company, try not to drool on the tablecloth. It’s new."
But I’m having issues with the jet lag. I am. This morning as I lay awake at 5:20 am, doing all the things that desperately awake people do - squinting my eyes shut, humming Louis Armstrong and Paul Anka, counting the number of minutes of sleep I could get before the rest of the house awakes and wants me to eat frittata - and I began planning what I will refer to forever more as: My Goal Structure.
The goal structure goes like this. In six months I’d like to be horribly successful and wealthy, and then backtracking through several totally unrealistic steps by which to attain above-mentioned success and wealth. If tomorrow, after frittata, I place several well-worded emails to former professors asking for letters of recommendation to audit writing programs at several illustrious universities in so doing opening long-closed lines of communication to the literary world and thus setting the first domino in motion.
Instead, I’ve got this: "Put your head on my shoulder. . .hold me in your arms, baby, squeeze me oh so tight. . ."
If tomorrow, after frittata, I begin revising my writing resume and updating the table of contents that shows my completed (few) versus my incompleted (many) manuscripts in so doing giving myself an accurate snapshot of the body of work which I possess and hopefully enabling me to forecast any/all possible works of usable fiction to continue my career or sell blindly to faceless executives for large amounts of cash.
"Oh the shark has, pretty teeth dear . . . and he shows them, pearly white. Just a jackknife, has macheath yeah, and he keeps it, out of sight . . ." I can hum the lyrics right up to the part about Sukey Tawdry and Jenny Diver and then all rational thought is lost with the thought of someone out there in the world, a past world maybe, named Sukey.
And then it was six o’clock.
I should be out there with my laptop, writing something. I could be in the kitchen, helping with the frittata. I could be. . .
And I fell asleep.
I dreamt of my goal structure. I dreamt of being a race car driver. I dreamt of a huge soft bed with soft white light muted by curtains and breezes through white-paneled windows. And then boom - nine thirty - time to wake up - time to enjoy frittata - time to put enough caffeine into a human body to heat Stalingrad in the wintertime or to make usable comparisons and metaphors. . .ahem.
Yes, I am having problems with the jet lag.
But I’m having issues with the jet lag. I am. This morning as I lay awake at 5:20 am, doing all the things that desperately awake people do - squinting my eyes shut, humming Louis Armstrong and Paul Anka, counting the number of minutes of sleep I could get before the rest of the house awakes and wants me to eat frittata - and I began planning what I will refer to forever more as: My Goal Structure.
The goal structure goes like this. In six months I’d like to be horribly successful and wealthy, and then backtracking through several totally unrealistic steps by which to attain above-mentioned success and wealth. If tomorrow, after frittata, I place several well-worded emails to former professors asking for letters of recommendation to audit writing programs at several illustrious universities in so doing opening long-closed lines of communication to the literary world and thus setting the first domino in motion.
Instead, I’ve got this: "Put your head on my shoulder. . .hold me in your arms, baby, squeeze me oh so tight. . ."
If tomorrow, after frittata, I begin revising my writing resume and updating the table of contents that shows my completed (few) versus my incompleted (many) manuscripts in so doing giving myself an accurate snapshot of the body of work which I possess and hopefully enabling me to forecast any/all possible works of usable fiction to continue my career or sell blindly to faceless executives for large amounts of cash.
"Oh the shark has, pretty teeth dear . . . and he shows them, pearly white. Just a jackknife, has macheath yeah, and he keeps it, out of sight . . ." I can hum the lyrics right up to the part about Sukey Tawdry and Jenny Diver and then all rational thought is lost with the thought of someone out there in the world, a past world maybe, named Sukey.
And then it was six o’clock.
I should be out there with my laptop, writing something. I could be in the kitchen, helping with the frittata. I could be. . .
And I fell asleep.
I dreamt of my goal structure. I dreamt of being a race car driver. I dreamt of a huge soft bed with soft white light muted by curtains and breezes through white-paneled windows. And then boom - nine thirty - time to wake up - time to enjoy frittata - time to put enough caffeine into a human body to heat Stalingrad in the wintertime or to make usable comparisons and metaphors. . .ahem.
Yes, I am having problems with the jet lag.
posted by Snapp @ 9:36 AM
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