It’s that dumb, stupid time of year again when
we all have to roll our freakin’ clocks forward for no reason whatsoever, thus
throwing us natural night owls into sleep deprivation and chronic irritability
for three weeks straight. I’m so annoyed by this asinine, archaic practice. I’m
a natural night person who has managed to train myself to wake up at five
freakin’ thirty in the a.m. (that’s the morning,
people), and be at work and (sort of) functional by 7:30. That is a Herculean, heroic
task for me. And now because of Germany and farms or something, I am going to
be effectively getting up at 4:30, which just makes me want to cry. I work at a
hospital, and it seems that majority of people drawn to the medical field are
morning people. I’m always getting meeting invites for 7:00 a.m. Who holds a
meeting at 7:00 a.m.? I can’t even
think at 7:00 a.m. I’m on the bus in a zombie daze, trying to keep from falling
asleep on the shoulder of whoever is next to me. (And while we’re on the
subject, what’s with this weird idea that early risers are somehow inherently
more productive and moral than night owls? When I stay up late, I’m as
productive as a morning person, I’m just performing that productivity at night
instead of the a.m.) I literally live for the weekends, knowing I can sleep as
late as my body wants to, lounge around in my hoodie and sweatpants, and while
away the morning luxuriously sipping coffee and surfing Imgur. I’m dreading
this adjustment period. Maybe I should go take a nap as a fortification
measure.
On a cheerier note, the new writing group I
mentioned a few weeks ago continues to rock! Last week, it was just me and one
other person, who, as it turns out, has a penchant for paranormal fiction,
which was very heartening to me. I don’t meet many people who share my interest
in that sort of thing, and we ended up having a great chat and swapping some
good resources. We even got some writing done. I’m working on this long,
rambling experimental piece about a horse and an apple and my grandparent’s
house, but it’s not working out great so far. It doesn’t seem to want to be
poem or a short story or an essay, but this weird hybrid of all three, and
also, the subject is very sad-making to me, and uncomfortably memoir-like. I’ve
never understood the impulse to write memoirs, and will never write one. First
of all, I can’t remember anything, including my wedding date. Secondly, the
vast majority of my writing is informed by my personal experience, but most of
the details of my life are incredibly banal. I prefer to mine the emotional of
charge of my experiences through the construction of elaborate fiction. That
somehow makes my experiences seem more real to me that they would be if it
wrote a factual account of them. Maybe that’s just how I process experiences
best—by symbolizing and mythologizing them.
Since the novel is effectively done except but
for some edits needed to fix the ending, I’ve been trying to write poetry
again, but everything is coming out wrong. It’s like what I have in my head won’t
conform to poetry. It just want to come out the way it wants to come out. It’s
roguish and untamable and wants to do its own thing. So I suppose I’ll just let
it, although I have no idea how to categorize it. Maybe I’ll create a new genre:
“Mopey, Experimental Ramblings” or “Weird Formless Verbal Spewing” or “Strange,
Disconcerting and Slightly Senseless Screeds”.
Speaking of screeds, here is Pete Holmes on
farmers, a category of people I deeply resent at the moment for stealing an
hour of sweet, sweet slumber from me. Thanks, America’s farmers! I know you feed
us and all, but seriously, I need my sleep more than I need your organic
turnips.
--Kristen McHenry
1 comment:
Pete Holmes "rant"...quite a collection of misinformation. Ever wondered why we have clocks at all...farmers certainly don't need them, as the sun provides an entirely adequate wake-up call. Do farmers control our food? Ever heard of Monsanto or Archer Daniels Midland?
Clocks are there to serve the same industrial masters that pay poets.
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