“You’re the one slinging accusations of purity, not me!” Ming just read me from a facebook argument, which I found funny.
“How do you sling an accusation of purity?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be nothing? Like slinging air?” The idea of snow. The idea of a fluffy cloud.
He mentioned a friend who specializes in Burning Man studies. “Burning Man studies?” I asked. “Like they have a Master’s Degree in Burning Man? What!!!?”
I was jelly; Burning Man studies would be my jam. “I think they have a PhD in Burning Man,” Ming said.
Too much jealous, some scarcity feelings. Really, Laura-Marie: there is enough love to go around. People I’m afraid of can be loved, people I’m skeptical of. Scholars for cool things I’d like to be a scholar of–all deserve love.
You don’t need to eject them to a loveless island. Maybe one day you can collaborate. Grant money is a joke. You have bigger vegan fish to fry.
curse of the writer
I was lying there, all snug in my bed. Visions of sugarplums were damn-near dancing in my head. I was getting delicious almost-asleep feelings.
Then I started writing in my head. As is often the case, it was a letter. I was telling my friend some stuff I really wanted to say. Made some sentences in my sleepy head, and then I was arranging the sentences into paragraphs.
I got excited at what I was saying, until the sleep feelings all washed away. All I had was excitement and dreamy words.
Oops, I had to get up and write some stuff down. I felt stupid. That lovely sleep was so close. Once I was up, I wrote some other stuff I wanted to write.
I love the world so much, then. Two in the morning is so quiet. I wrote a blog post, an email to a loved friend. Went on facebook for a specific task. Started another email.
The sky was brightening, when Ming got up. “Damn it,” I said, looking at the window. “The sun’s coming up. I never went back to sleep.”
He got six hours. I got almost five. Many times I have lived this way, but it’s not optimal. Curse of the writer is writing.