Us fat boys don't like being reminded of being fat, but not me. I'm ok with it. I have been
fat all my life. I saw the first light of day weighing in at well over eight pounds, and I have
been putting on the pounds ever since. I like to eat. That's one thing I am good at. I hope
and I pray to find another thing I can do. And not be such a drain on the
resources of the world. I would love to give something back one of these days.
I am too dumb, too slow and too lazy. I'm not about to stretch myself too thin to go the extra
mile. I would like to put down a few words that have some meaning for someone. I don't see
that happening. I'm too lonesome, too lonely and too afraid to do it. I must not be any good at it either. I can't get a grip on anything to write about. I do have a story I started, but I'm not going back to it and working on it. I am too busy reading other author's work and gauging my ability; my writing, by their work. That is wrong on so many different levels, I know it and yet, I can't keep myself from doing it.
One of these days I might go back to writing--I have a few essays, a few poems and a few letters. I doubt they will ever amount to much of a collection. That's all I have and I am trying to get more together--every day I do write. My journals ought to provide some insight to someone. When I am gone I want to leave them, along with my corpse, to a medical school and have only young doctors who are in love and who are poets--cut me up and pass me around. And when they are through with me--or maybe if they happen to take a break in between my knees and my kidneys--they could take out those journals and read about some of the things their corpse du jour used to think and write about. And maybe at that, I could teach them more than they had bargained for that day. So, let me remember to put those journals in with the body, or what's left of it--and let them know that when they are through with the body and the papers, to just burn it all and stir the ashes.
I was going to leave my journals to a friend--a writer friend, but she's mad at me right now for falling in love. It was not enough that I was already in love with her--she had to have it all.
All of me or none of me--and while I can and do appreciate where she's coming from, I can't agree with her logic. We all ought to go out of our way--I think--to find as much love as the world has to give and baste our souls and spirits in it. What better muse is there than love and broken hearts.
WPCannon
16 February 2010
Mardi Gras
Mount Vernon Public Library
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