Come in J9,
What's going on? I'm trying to write a short story about a young man who goes to school in Canada where he knows no one but a dozen or so baristas by the name of "Sarah," and one barista who spells her name with a number. The boy moves away from Canada for the summer to "get rich in the least possible amount of time," but can't seem to convince his stingy boss that he is worth more than $10 an hour and has to work a night job as well for a portly gentleman who isn't willing to climb extension ladders. Even though he heeds his doctor's warning to "quit drinking coffee or deal with the unbearable nausea," he grows poorer by the day and is forced to take on even more work and attend fewer social activities than the already meager once-a-month schedule. While in the past, it would seem that divine intervention kept him from attending the TOM festival (200 punk bands/five days), he narrows his eyes to slits, ignores the bill collectors who hover about him, takes a sip of his grande, almond, Maalox, and consults his dizzying intellect.
I don't know Janeen, it just doesn't seem believable enough. It would be nice if I could write a story that wasn't a gothic. A gothic short story written by a sharp-as-a-whistle like me is generally about as disturbing as a J. Crew catalogue, or a diet Pepsi with a lemon slice and a bendy straw. I'll leave you to make up your own mind about it I suppose.
9:00PM is late for this old boy so I'm going to stop confusing you for now. Did I mention that I went to Radiohead at the Gorge? Very good. You were probably there--you're so hip and all. Drink a Grande, Almond, Latte for me.
Josh Duff!
Sunday, July 08, 2001
This comes from a short story I wrote years ago. The poem was written by a rather wordless character named Jeff, for a girl named Amanda who had just slit her wrists. He loved her. I think there were elements of autobiography when I wrote the story. But, just hints.
My head is spinning with a billion stars tonight. It’s late, it’s late, and I’m full of life. the moon is both-ways round, I see this clearly now. The darkness begins to fade, and I muse at the fact that I don’t want it to stay. I think of you, I think of you, and the words you spoke tonight. The way I think has changed--I’ve changed all around. I can’t remember the way I was just hours ago, and I think of you.
My head is spinning with a billion stars tonight. It’s late, it’s late, and I’m full of life. the moon is both-ways round, I see this clearly now. The darkness begins to fade, and I muse at the fact that I don’t want it to stay. I think of you, I think of you, and the words you spoke tonight. The way I think has changed--I’ve changed all around. I can’t remember the way I was just hours ago, and I think of you.