Friday, April 16, 2004
Iron Flower
I went from having no job to working all the time. Which is great for the folks at Bank of America, as they'll actually be getting some of the $6,000+ I owe them soon. And that fact relieves me, strangely enough. At this point, I'd prefer to keep this simple job with its minimal pay--stop.
About the pay. I like the pay. I know it's minimal. I have friends -- not all my friends. But I have some -- a couple -- friends who ask people how much money they make. It interests them to know. They don't think this may be taken as a rude question. To them it is important. They need to know where they stack up next to this other person. "Do I make more? Or do I make less?"
If most people knew what I made they would laugh. Those who previously respected me would probably feel a lot better about themselves. But with that said--
It seems like a lot of money to me. Even though I know it isn't, I'm just amazed that that paycheck has my name on it. And the second shift schedule is beautiful, allowing me to give my writing the best hours of the day.
But overtime has taken its toll on the writing, lately. I'm 50 pages from finishing draft 2 of STFL, and they're the 50 toughest pages. It should only take two weeks, but coming home from work drained, waking up tired, coming to the keyboard with nothing . . . has made for slow progress.
I do look forward to finishing it so I can start a new book. The new book has very few bounds right now, so I would not be really held or pressured to any storyline or deadline, other than creating, which is nice. I also don't plan to try to sell it, unlike STFL, which has an agent request in.
Poetry-writing has taken the back-burner in these work-filled days, too, and that's fine. I've a nice string of historical ideas that can just sit. In the meantime I've been entertained with the rest of Wisconsin -- we've got our own girl who cried wolf, and she's already inspired another.
And then there's the other missing college student who turned up in the river, as one or two do each year in west-central Wisconsin. My uncle once told me, "Everything seems so important in college. But when you get older, it all seems much smaller." That's true, but what of how one represents oneself? What of at least leaving behind something to be proud of -- or better yet -- to not be ashamed of?
I wonder if they were surprised when they pulled him from the river, eighth in seven years. Like the end of "On My Honor". The river is nature's last stronghold in the city. It happens in Milwaukee, too. Every spring, the Kinnickinnic River, with its cement-lined bottom, rises, someone slips in, the current catches, and it's all anyone can do but scrape and slide along the bottom, with nothing to hold onto, just to pray someone leaps in after them, like last year, when a man standing watch dove in to save the kid speeding away with his hands splashing up out of the rushing water. He caught him, just in time, pushing him to shore . . . only to be swept away himself, pulled out days later at the head of the dam.
About the pay. I like the pay. I know it's minimal. I have friends -- not all my friends. But I have some -- a couple -- friends who ask people how much money they make. It interests them to know. They don't think this may be taken as a rude question. To them it is important. They need to know where they stack up next to this other person. "Do I make more? Or do I make less?"
If most people knew what I made they would laugh. Those who previously respected me would probably feel a lot better about themselves. But with that said--
It seems like a lot of money to me. Even though I know it isn't, I'm just amazed that that paycheck has my name on it. And the second shift schedule is beautiful, allowing me to give my writing the best hours of the day.
But overtime has taken its toll on the writing, lately. I'm 50 pages from finishing draft 2 of STFL, and they're the 50 toughest pages. It should only take two weeks, but coming home from work drained, waking up tired, coming to the keyboard with nothing . . . has made for slow progress.
I do look forward to finishing it so I can start a new book. The new book has very few bounds right now, so I would not be really held or pressured to any storyline or deadline, other than creating, which is nice. I also don't plan to try to sell it, unlike STFL, which has an agent request in.
Poetry-writing has taken the back-burner in these work-filled days, too, and that's fine. I've a nice string of historical ideas that can just sit. In the meantime I've been entertained with the rest of Wisconsin -- we've got our own girl who cried wolf, and she's already inspired another.
And then there's the other missing college student who turned up in the river, as one or two do each year in west-central Wisconsin. My uncle once told me, "Everything seems so important in college. But when you get older, it all seems much smaller." That's true, but what of how one represents oneself? What of at least leaving behind something to be proud of -- or better yet -- to not be ashamed of?
I wonder if they were surprised when they pulled him from the river, eighth in seven years. Like the end of "On My Honor". The river is nature's last stronghold in the city. It happens in Milwaukee, too. Every spring, the Kinnickinnic River, with its cement-lined bottom, rises, someone slips in, the current catches, and it's all anyone can do but scrape and slide along the bottom, with nothing to hold onto, just to pray someone leaps in after them, like last year, when a man standing watch dove in to save the kid speeding away with his hands splashing up out of the rushing water. He caught him, just in time, pushing him to shore . . . only to be swept away himself, pulled out days later at the head of the dam.
