today i received a story (non-fiction) from a friend and it blasted open everything i assumed about him and his personal life. walking to the subway, i couldn’t wait to read what he had written, baring his soul and his inner most secrets in this piece. i realized that while i think i know everything, in actuality i know very little about the people in my life. i spend a fair amount of time trying to understand them, because i don’t want to be judgmental, especially from lack of knowledge. but really i was shocked and surprised at this information. there was an intimacy there that made me so unbelievably happy, i can’t really describe the feeling.
i was walking in union square, running errands, and i thought, i am here. i am still here.
To say I’m disillusioned is putting it mildly. For nineteen years, with two years out for sickness, I’ve written best-selling entertainment, and my dialogue is supposedly right up at the top … I am utterly miserable at seeing months of work and thought negated in one hasty week. I hope you’re big enough to take this letter as it’s meant—a desperate plea to restore the dialogue to its former quality … Oh, Joe, can’t producers ever be wrong? I’m a good writer—honest.
not dreading sunday night, but dreading the future + quiet mornings that begin at ten a.m. and do not involve the subway + empty bank accounts + intense hopefulness followed by overwhelming disappointment + noticing how good you’ve got it + drinking endless amounts of alcohol purchased by your friends who feel sorry for you + being more creative and having the time to output art + weepy nights + puffy eyelids + socks and underwear filled with holes + re-reading everything that ever mattered to you + realizing who you can really trust + missing your dog + regretting your college major + learning the hard way that only you can make it happen + the curse and blessing that is freelance work + cobra payments + knowing what your parents meant when they said the government was evil + cooking dinner + having time to drink a cup of coffee in the morning + endless resume editing and revamping + lines on your rib cage from powersuit over-wear-age + the appearance of fine lines underneath your eyes + middle of the afternoon movie dates + the never-ending anxiety of not knowing what will happen
=
unemployment
i would make a terrible general. i have no idea how to pick my battles; in my playbook, anything’s worth waging war. i’d have soldiers all over the place, picking fights with trees.
Working at a variety of jobs, as a photographer, truck driver and stenographer at the local telephone company, she managed to save $1,000 for flying lessons. Earhart had her first lessons, beginning on January 3, 1921, at Kinner Field near Long Beach but to reach the airfield Amelia took a bus to the end of the line, then walked four miles (6 km).[34] Her teacher was Anita “Neta” Snook, a pioneer female aviator who used a surplus Curtiss JN-4 “Canuck” for training. Amelia arrived with her father and a singular request, “I want to fly. Will you teach me?”[35]
