a review of real life that will not become a metaphor.
those of you who have spent any time in philadelphia know that there are certain people who seem to devote themselves to making life fun for other philadelphians, and when i say philadelphians, i mean people who live in or near philadelphia. in other words, the stuff these folks are pulling off is happening nowhere else that i’m aware of.
one of these people throws parties for a living. these parties tend to make me happy. even when i don’t love them i hate the world less than usual. recently this person threw a party at a private airport in new jersey with a swimming pool shaped like an airplane, and because most of his constituents live in philadelphia and get around by public transportation and bicycle, he hired buses to ship said constituents back and forth between philadelphia and the airplane pool. that was considerate.
i was the pilot
before i left for the party, i have to admit, i wasn’t really looking forward to it. the reason: i swim all the time, four times a week. this swimming is, for me, both exercise and meditation. that’s why i’m used to swimming with goggles.
because i’m used to swimming with goggles, it was hard to imagine having fun swimming without them, with a bunch of (why don’t i just go ahead and say) hipsters, to a soundtrack of (why don’t i just go ahead and say) bloghouse, and dancing and jumping around rather than swimming laps. i’m glad i did it. it was really refreshing.
that motherfucker's spiked with pain
on a totally different and non-metaphorical note, as someone who has had three books published (and has another one coming out), i’m trying to remember what it was like to write without (or at least with less) intent to publish.
listen champ. what do you mean by intent to publish?
i’ll check back tomorrow, and we’ll go at it. it’ll be great right?
by intent to publish i mean i think about where a piece of writing might end up more while still writing it, like a few lines in i’ll think to myself, this could be a journal x story, or this novel could only be published by press y. i worry it threatens to limit the work itself and i kind of miss the days when i’d be working on something as though no one would ever even consider publishing it. it’s a privelege to be able to publish my stuff, but i think about it too much given the fact that there’s no money in it and very few people will ever get the work in their hands, at least at this point. it ain’t angst. it’s a challenge.
i’ve written some things almost sort of to get published in places. or for specific things. lord knows we wouldn’t want to challenge your angst. as long as it’s not taking the piece in a direction contrary to you as a person and a writer, and also if it’s causing you to grow or consider certain things you usually wouldn’t, then fuck it yknow?
do i know what i am talking about?
not really. no.
i hear you. i mean in the last couple weeks we’ve both written pieces for the same specific thing (dollar store show), right? that can be a good impetus and i’ve written some of my best work that way. i’ve written some of my other best work at points when i thought no one would ever publish anything else i wrote. i like it all different ways. lately i’ve been missing one of them. grass is always greener and whatnot.