Oh so the skies are a’meltin’ and the birds be building homes in the wakening trees. Yours truly is flubbergating over yet another restart of Honest Women and trying to give herself leprosy rather than attend a St. Pat dinner at the relatives. I’d rather gouge my eyes out for Jesus than endure the carping of Fox well-trained seals still waiting for Hilary to be arrested…no, not kidding. There is no kid here. The kids have left the building, to hunt down the real Elvis.
I find myself waffling, like a giant lady waffle, over WHAT THE HELL IS THE STORY for my full length Honest Women, instead of just, um, writing and letting whatever lorch onto the screen/page. Lorch is such a spot-on word for vomiting. I can’t even. Are the children still using–I can’t even– as a catchphrase? Do I need to move on?
However, I wrote thirty some pages yesterday. My fingers flew like yard robins. Things coalesced. Themes emerged from the murky swamps. Those murky dirty swamps that one swims in and often drowns many times over within before deciding such and such is crap and thus–goodbye forever. Or decides such and such needs a total ass-kicking rewrite from scratch. There’s options here.
Basketball plagues the airwaves and the minds of hearty, flag-wavin’ ‘muricans right now. A plague on all your brackets! I don’t care and could care less if Seton Hall defeats Satan in a thrilling overtime deathmatch involving flamethrowers, those Mad Max cars and naked female mud wrestlers straddling ‘gators. Nope! March Madness is just basketball. It bounces, it goes in the net, it bounces. It overshadows Women’s History Month…coincidence?? Huh. Prolly not. Ahem.
How come women get a whole month? When will it be Men’s History Month??
Yep. Yep yep yep. Head. Explode. Ah.
I didn’t have a cohesive topic for a blog post, but since my pattern seems to post on Friday or Saturday or any other day of the week, I thought I’d gather a few rando notions and force them into the same vague essay-ish lorch.
To sum up– am reworking Honest Women YET AGAIN BECAUSE I GET TO ACT TWO and I wonder…who the fuck is gonna want to sit through this shit? And then start a new version, where, eventually, I will consider the poor audience members suffering through this dreck and then restart YET AGAIN BECAUSE WAH. Yeah, that’s my super-secret writing process, laid out in surgical precision and coldly logical robotic terms.
Trying to get leprosy or just calmly state, no thanks…for the St. Green feast of corned beef and America First.
Some other piddlings to fill in the sparse content a bit.
Though…I’d probably have material for about ten blog posts if I attended the St. Green’s feast of corned beef and America First but oh my blessed baby Jesus and pint of Guinness Stout…IT’S JUST NOT WORTH LOSING MY SOUL OVER. Satan, after all, has first dibbs on that poor, battered bit of swamp gas that floats in me with a bewildered puzzlement nearly all hours of the day or night.