Transcript from sometime in the future. Location unknown. Names redacted.
Q.
A. High gamma. Overexposed. Blown out highlights. Blacks blacker than black and dream-like fuzzy.
Q.
A. Like cobwebs in my esophagus. Treble hooks below my eyes pulling the skin with lead weights. Cheekbones feel porcelain brittle, not living, ossified within my decaying flesh. Air heavy. Like water. My lungs work as bilge pumps. On a sinking vessel. Laboring to pull air in, mechanically working to expel.
Q.
A. Sharp. Exaggerated. Everything over the top. No middle ground. Nothing subtle. Aroma hurts. Cuts. Stabs. Bites. Claws. Gnaws. Eats. Sucks. Teasing nauseousness. Invading. Attacking. Omnipresent. Nothing smells as it once did.
Q.
A. Whatever is not in focus is grey, but moving as if the grey knows, as if the grey is whispering and pointing. Talking. Gossiping. Assuming. Looking from corners. From eyes shaded.
Q.
A. Shrill. Irritating. High-pitched. Relentless. Consuming. Everywhere. My own voice labored. Tinny. Like I'm talking underwater. No one can hear me. Talking louder doesn't work. Has no effect. People talk over me. Around me. All sounds are sharp. But voices. Voices are muted.
Q.
A. Hyper-sensitive. Beyond drugs. I am no longer able to become intoxicated--no matter how much I drink.
Q.
A. Nothing satisfies. Not in the bite. Not in the meal. I eat more than I used to. The strange thing is, I look forward to eating. The memory of what it was like to eat is still there and I approach each meal as if this time things will be different. Be as they were.
Q.
A. Never.
Q.
A. I know at the first bite. So I eat more. I couldn't tell you what propels me. The experience is almost out of body. I watch myself eat.
Q.
A. I’ve lost all peripheral vision. I see, sometimes vaguely, only what is in front of me. Sometimes I see nothing at all.
Q.
A. Yes.
Q.
A. I thought it would. It didn’t. If anything, it only made things worse.
Q.
A. Constricted. Especially my heart. I don’t think it is functioning correctly. I feel a gurgling in my chest. Something I’d never felt before. I’m cold too. Seems I can never get warm. I take a lot of baths--hot. It helps. For awhile. I used to light candles but I can no longer stand the fragrance. So, I bought scent-free candles and I found the light bothered my eyes, so I closed my eyes and I swear, the sound, the sound of the flame, irritated the heck out of me. I bathe without light now. (pause) I want to come back to sound. Everything I said before--not always so.
Q.
A. Sometimes sound passes through me. Like I was a ghost. Like I can’t hear it. Don’t hear it. And words are just sounds. I hear them them without listening. And others know I’m not listening. Yet, and this is the strange thing, when they confront me on not listening, I can repeat in detail everything they just said. You should see the look of disgust on their faces. But they were right. I wasn’t listening.
Q.
A. Little things. Details. Like zooming into a fractal. Getting deeper and deeper and seeing the same patterns. Little things seem like everything. Big things like nothing.
Q.
Death.
Q.
A. I have this overwhelming desire to cut my grass with a pair of scissors. A few blades at a time. Taking pains to get it right--height, level, etc. And watering my lawn--not with a hose or a sprinkler, both of which I have, but with a bucket. A small bucket. Red. I fill it up inside the house, bypassing the outside facet and going up the stairs, in the house and filling up my small red bucket in the kitchen sink. Just watching the water flow. Careful not to over fill it. That is very important. I could tell you the grass knows the care I take, but that would be silly.
Q.
A. I pick my spots. I know how to pretend, to act normal. Or so I believe. Its exhausting. Maintaining that belief. Heck, just acting normal, and I never know if I’m doing it right, because, fuck me, if I knew, I wouldn’t have to act. Right?
Q.
A. A good set of hair. You know. Young hair. Thick. Rich. Luxurious. The color of rosewood. Deep. Soft. Textured. I miss that. You know what I like the most? Where it bends. The hair. And the light catches that bend. That bar of light on the height of the curve. I could stare at that bar of light all day. That and the fine texture of clean straight hair, the slight variation of hue and saturation and value. Try and paint that hair, try and get the HSV right and you’ll appreciate what I’m talking about. Most people look at me like I’m crazy when I describe hair like that. And you know what else. Reminds me a little of grass. Fine blades of grass. Some days I just lie in the yard and run my fingers through the grass. Soft. Alive. Delicate. Defenseless.
Q.
A. They don’t come around much anymore. And when they do, I can’t recall they have much to say. Of course, they seem equally disinterested in what I want to talk about.
Q.
A. Details. The world in a grain of sand. As they say. Like . . . Never mind.
Q.
A. A glass of wine.
Q.
A. There was a time a glass of wine was not just a glass of wine. And you know the fuck what? There is nothing more lonely than knowing a glass of wine is not just a glass of wine and nobody else knows what the fuck you are talking about and there is no way to explain it to them. But you know what? I don’t have that problem no more. Jack.
Q.
A. (eyes water. tear runs down cheek)
Q.
A. No, what do you want to know?
Q.
A. Haven’t talked to her in awhile. Last I heard she was doing well.
Q.
A. Hard to say.
Q.
A. Thanks.
Q.
--Break--
Q.
A. I put headphones on and look at myself in the mirror. I look more handsome with headphones on.
Q.
A. After reading. I mean, I can no longer read without my headphones on. Music playing. It has to be headphones. I can’t read if the music is playing without headphones. But I can’t read without headphones playing music. And that is when it occurs to me.
Q.
A. To go to the mirror and look at myself. Sometimes with the music still playing. But mostly with the music off. Seems sacrilegious to look at oneself with headphones on and music playing. Like adding something profane to the reverent. If you are looking in the right way. Don’t you think? I mean, to look upon oneself is to look at the great unknown. You might as well walk outside and stare up into the dark soul of the sky. The two are ‘bout the fucking same. Right. And it is what it is. Music just adds something extra, like a small child taking a crayon and adding some birds to a masterpiece of art.
Q.
A. No. Never.
Q.
A. Maybe.
Q.
A. Let me touch your hair.
Q.
A. Well, there you go.
Q.
A. Yeah. The reading. Opens my soul. I don’t like what I see. Music creates a barrier. Between me and the darkness. A wall. Protection. Gives me a coat against the cold infinite bottomless pit of nothingness. That pit, in my mind, has eyes. They don’t blink and sometimes I swear there are more than just two. Music distracts me. Or maybe, it is a tether. A lifeline to the world I know when the world I don’t know threatens to consume me. So I hold on.
Q.
A. It's not that I want to read. It's just that I can’t not read. Each book is like a person. And each one is in my life for a purpose. Hell, I’m that one that brought them into my house. They didn’t just show up. I am cause. I am effect. And they sit on my selves just waiting for me to pick them up. Patient little bastards. I’ve got more than I can attend to properly. And yet, get this. I keep adding to the flock. I’m sure the bastards hate me. Would explain why they torture me so. Nice theory. Complete shite. But it sounds nice.
Q.
A. Don’t matter. Don’t you see that. It’s not the book. It’s not the message. It is the act. Reading is not reading. You know, it really pisses me off when you smile like that.
Q.
A. Accepted.
Q.
A. I once had a baby chick. You know, the one you take home from school when they teach you about babies and do the incubation thing. Every kid gets a chick after they hatch. Well, I don’t remember this story myself, but the story goes the chick, the one I took home, was doing what little chicks do when taken away. Chirping. Endlessly. And the story goes, I silenced that chick. With my own hands. Now, like I said, I have no memory of this event. Only the retelling of it. But the adults in my life at the time, keepers of the tale, say it is true. But you know what bothers me to this day?
Q.
A. No.
Q.
A. The way they told it. Like it was funny. Like it was their story. Like I didn’t matter. Like that chick didn’t matter. And they seemed to enjoy telling it. Mostly, it seemed, only when I was there to hear it.
Q.
A. Yes. That’s when I knew. And you know what else. I think they knew too. And I think they thought they could laugh it away. Kill it in the telling over and over again. Then again, I imagine a lot of shite. Who the frack knows what they were thinking.
Q.
A. Nope. What it did was lead me to hate them. To hate the pleasure they took at my expense.
Q.
A. Weakness. Or stupidity. Or both. You know what I wonder? Why. Why I did it. What impulse at that innocent age had taken root and I wonder if they knew, knew the root within me, the one they had witnessed, the one they laughed about and recounted endless times--to the same circle of family I give you. It was not like there was a new audience. They all knew the story. Yet, still, within them, a need. To tell it again. With me present. I see the laughter to this day. And I see little difference between that laughter and a knife twisted in my chest. And I wonder, how much fear they had. Knowing this was one root they could not pull. Did not know how to yank. Think about that.
--Break--
Q.
A. Fear. It dominates everything I do. I live in the spaces between it, where it allows me to venture. I live in those well-worn ruts, trotting routine into the soil of my prison yard. And I feel shame. Not what you think. Not shameful for the fear. I see the fear as something not of me so I have no shame for it. No. Shame for not trying to escape. Shame for not having the courage to end it all. I could do it. No. That’s not right. I can’t do it. So I cower. I live in the shadow of fear. And I cloak myself in the shame of knowing I have not the courage to end it. End it all.
--Break--
Q.
A. I feel like something inside of me is falling. Just falling. I feel it. Not just a thought, but a physical sensation. I feel it mostly in my chest as if my heart was lead, not flesh. The image of water flowing over a cliff is what I see. I don’t see the bottom. I don’t see the top. I just see the infinite flowing, the infinite falling. Falling without beginning and without end. Without start or stop. (pause) I see it in hair too. Not curly hair. Hair that flows. A graceful, tragic, curve. Like your hair. (smiles)
--Break--
Q.
A. Handwriting becomes tedious. Every letter, of every word, is an effort. Just forming each letter becomes almost impossible. So my writing can’t be read by anyone else. Actually, within a few days, I can hardly read what I’ve written either. And I know, I tried, with tremendous effort, to write legibly. My own hand mocks me. It doesn’t shake, like an old person. My hand is steady. It just refuses to allow me to write clearly. I can’t explain it. So I don’t write so much anymore.
Q.
A. When connected. Like climbing a mountain and we feel the belay--above and below--and we know connection, togetherness, in life, in the support of life. And no one on a mountain, belayed, is laughing at the one above or below. People look at me today and they don’t belay. They choose not to connect. They walk on past. I see it. I feel it. And I withdraw. Further. Like a shadow. Growing with the falling sun. Waiting to be consumed in the encroaching, inevitable darkness of night. Think about that. Think of yourself as a shadow. And night is coming. How would you feel? Think about it. Think about what that shadow is thinking. How do you stop the coming of night?
Q.
A. I sit and watch the seconds tick by. I see my life, alone on that mountain, dripping away, each second a drop of blood from a vein that won’t coagulate. Sometimes those drops are not blood, but poison, like chemo, dripping into my veins and I can’t stop the poison and it drips, into me. Nobody comes to stop it.
Q.
A. Right. Yes. I’ll schedule it.
26 comments:
Holy shit, Tree.
This is without a doubt, my most favourite post that I have read here yet.
It drew me in.
No, 'drew' isn't the word.
It sucked me in.
It sucked me in and I felt it sucking. Each and every little sucker, like on an octopus arm, sucking away at me and making me fall into this place too.
A place that I find myself in only way too often.
This post is so raw.
It's so in-your-face.
It's so full of human soul.
It wrenches at my gut, and tugs at my heart-strings, and makes my eyes pop out of my head so that they might read more quickly or grasp something more severely as they anticipate the next line.
I loved this.
Strumper, I think this is the sort of chapter you either love or hate. This one was written, starting in the airport, then on the four hourish flight and then some more sitting in meetings. Oh, and the girl sitting in front of me on the plane had the most incredible hair--rosewood hued too. :-D
You have no idea how much I just wanted to reach over her seat and run my fingers through her hair. :-D
Your Strumpilicious comments are noted and appreciated. If I were wearing a belt, it would be off right about now. I'll let your imagination fill in the rest. :-D
I had planned on asking you what
"Let me touch your hair"
and
"Well, there you go" mean. Your answering comment to Strumpet spoke volumes. I think I understand now. Was there no way to manage a feel of her glorious hair? Stand up to go to the little boys room and "trip", hand landing in hair? She may have been wishing that some one would WANT to reach out and touch her, right at that moment..... everyone wants to connect.
This post confused, overwhelmed, and amazed me, all at once. I have never read anything written the way this was, and the understanding and not understanding were exhilerating in a way. It made me dig. No, I don't understand all that I read, but I love it still.
"I know how to act normal or so I believe. It's exhausting. Maintaining that belief. Heck, just acting normal, and I never know if I'm doing it right, because fuck me, if I knew, I wouldn't have to act. Right?"
Feels as though you have been reading my journal. Are these emotions felt by all of us, or only the chosen few? :^D
Tonight, I walked up the stairs as Hubby stood behind me at the foot of the stairs. He said "Lord, I love your legs. Come back and walk back up again - let me watch." I didn't do it. I am at an age and stage, that even his sincere admiration makes me feel ridiculous. Sometimes, if I would wash the red grease paint grin from my face, there is no telling what my words would be. Maybe something as profound as this post.
More Sir.
Jennifer
Jen, first let me say thank you for the comment. I love the unique and wonderful way you engage each chapter.
Now, I'll tell you a secret. As I was writing this chapter, in longhand, on the plane, I didn't write down the questions that were being answered. A few days later, when I had the time to type my notes into the post, I wasn't always sure what the question was that I had the character answering. :-D
Here is the second secret. I'm not sure which character we are seeing. The thought occured to me today that his might even be a character that has not entered the story yet. All we really know is this. The patient is male. The therapist is female and apparently has beautiful hair. Beyond that, we really don't know.
Now, I say all this, because I like sharing secrets, makes me all warm inside, and, I don't expect anyone to fully get this chapter in a literal way. I hope, this chapter, instead, paints a picture, shapes a mood, and, as you pointed out so nicely, perhaps shows a sense that we all are, as we look in that mirror, not all that different. We have faith because we don't know. That "not knowing" bonds us all. And, when we connect with another's not knowing, I think we feel a connection of sorts. So, from one pea to another, welcome to the pod. :-D
As for touching that girl's hair, believe me the thought crossed my mind. She was sleeping on the flight. With her seat reclined. Not much room on planes and that hair was not all that far from my itchy fingers. Somehow, I don't think she would have appreciated me running my fingers through her hair, perhaps. :-D
You know, I think I've got stairs on the brain now. :-D
I've got stairs on the brain as well now.
That, and Jennifer's legs.
Ms. Jennifer, you SO have to let him watch now when he's least expecting it...give 'im a li'l show!!
Cos that was so HOT of him to ask you to do that.
Thank you for sharing that image.
:)
I don't believe that things just happen, that there is no plan or a reason behind them. Your post came across as inspired, not an oops! It may have been out of your hands. Just what another person needed to read (here I stand, raising my hand) just at the right time, to evoke a certain response. I needed to FEEL, other than the way I was already feeling.
And don't you just have a way of teasing, coaxing, or demanding an emotional response with your words? One only has to open their heart or mind, and they can be caught up, swept away in a story about another place and another time.....
As for stairs and legs. My husband is willing to be the greatest love adventure that I could ever hope for. My lack of trust in myself stifles some pretty wonderful opportunities. I believe I will attempt to be more Strumper-like! To hell with cellulite and wrinkles - I can purr and hiss like Madame Strumpet and show that man of mine what fabulous taste he once had, and has still....... tomorrow, when I am not so bloomin' tired. ;^)
Jen, you are a beautiful woman and your husband is a very lucky man. At least I know I'm not the only one that likes to watch. Hair, legs, it's all the same, although I do like my legs without hair. :-D
As always, thank you for the very kind words. I write what is inside of me at any given moment, which is why the story jumps all over the place. That others find it interesting has always fascinated me. I won't go into all the reasons again, but one day, I would love to be able to read what I've written as a reader--a pleasure the writing itself keeps from me.
Okay, so we have now established Jen has great legs to go with her gorgeous eyes. :-D
:-) I love reading the comments that people write, so eloquent and perceptive and clear.
Always more, is what you give, Poppet. It isn't just the phenomenally wonderful writing, nor the evocative images, not is it just the plot or the themes or the characters and their ability to inspire affection and admiration and compassion and connection, that The Story is still going strong after almost 2.5 years, going from strength to strength after almost 2.5 years, certainly has much to do with the eternal seeking that occurs within, the constant betterment, the always more. So many times, you have mastered a particular style, found a perfect formula, that were timeless and tireless, I'm sure, and yet there has never been any sort of complacency, there has always been more. And here we have it again. We've seen the interview technique before, but here is a twist, we know not who the participants are, nor are we treated to any sort of understanding as to the what has happen, only that this is at some point in the future. Interesting it has been to speculate whom this could be, content aside for a moment, whom do we know that is present in the future...Kyra, Rog, Yul..., it would be neither Kyra nor Rog, Yul is a possibility, and some of the others could be vague possibilities too, but it doesn't seem to fit, which only makes the whole thing more curious. I had my thoughts about The Hood too, and that would be my best bet, though I wouldn't dare lay down too much. None of it matters, though, at least not at this stage, that would depend on whether there is more to be revealed at a later date in regards to identity, still very interesting to speculate.
With your twist, accidental or not, and I'm leaning towards Jennifer's wonderful comment on few things being by chance and that for some reason, as can be seen upon reading, this chapter was meant to be the way it is. Gut-wrenching, to loosely quote Strumpet, is precisely what it was, these two have said it so well, I can only nod or repeat in agreement. I want to ask, though it is not one that I need answered or expect to be answered, where these things come from, how a person goes from an empty page and after some time and the movement of pen has something like this to show for it. Like a tap deep within released on full stream for a length of time and I imagine that the words appear almost of their own accord, with nothing rising in between to alter the course or hinder them and thus a language comes forth, recognizable but usually unspoken, the rawness that Strumpet spoke of, that leaves one gasping as one continues and looks further and further into that nothingness, that unknown spoken of. I printed this out and took a pen and underlined parts with the intention of saying something about them. That they may speak for themselves, I type them here
as if the grey knows, as if the grey is whispering and pointing. No one can hear me. No longer able to be intoxicated. Nothing satisfies, The memory...is still there. Sometimes I see nothing at all. I thought it would. It didn't. If anything, it only made things worse. Seems I can never get warm. Scent-free. The sound of the flame irritated the heck out of me. Sometimes sound passes through me. When they confront me on not listening, I can repeat in detail everything they just said, Little things seem like everything. Big things like nothing. A few blades at a time. If I knew I wouldn't have to act. Reminds me a little of grass. Fine blades of grass. Some days I just lie int he yard and run my fingers through the grass. They don't come around much anymore. There is nothing more lonely than knowing a glass of wine is not just a glass of wine and nobody knows what the fuck you are talking about and there is no way to explain it to them. (eyes water, tears run down cheek) Haven't talked to her in a while. I look more handsome with headphones on. I can't read if the music is playing without headphones..., Seems sacrilegious to look at oneself with headphones on and music playing. Like adding something profane to the reverent. To look upon oneself is to look a the great unknown. The reading. Opens my soul, I don't like what I see. Music creates a barrier. Or maybe, it's a tether. A lifeline to the world I know when the world I don't know threatens to consume me. So I hold on. They sit on my shelves just waiting for me to pick them up. I keep adding to the flock. It is the act. Reading is not reading. You know, it really pisses me off when you smile like that. I once had a baby chick. Like it was their story. Like I didn't matter. Like that chick didn't matter. Yes. That's when I knew. What it did was lead me to hate them. To hate the pleasure they took at my expense. Little difference between the laughter and a knife twisted in my chest. And I wonder, how much fear they had. Knowing this was one root they could not pull. Fear. It dominates everything I do. I live in the spaces between it. I feel like something inside of me is falling. Handwriting becomes tedious. My own hand mocks me. So I don't write much anymore. When connected. Like climbing a mountain and we feel the belay. They choose not to connect. consumed in the encroaching, inevitable darkness of night. Think about that. I sit and watch the seconds tick by. I see my life, alone on that mountain, dripping away, each second a drop of blood from a vein that won't coagulate. Sometimes those drops are not blood...and I can't stop the poison and it drips, into me. Nobody comes to stop it.
Like you said above, it's more the mood than the facts, the greying, the falling, the approaching blackness, the distance, the lacks, the desire and the memory of how things once were and wanting them to be that way again, being out of sync with those around, not hearing, not connecting, not being understood, being apart and separate, visible but not seen, and only feeling that glimpse of true existence, presence, every once in a while, and those occasions dwindling faster and faster, drifting further the closer one tries to get. Jennifer said something too, about needing to feel, which I thought particularly wonderful, and it is what is frightening about how much is recognizable in this chapter, which part is the majority aside, for there are times for all of us perhaps where sounds are ghosts, mirrors are endless and on the shelves they sit with never-ending patience, where everyone around seems to swirl...I have this visual of being on a merry-go-round, still yet moving, others still yet turning, appearing and disappearing and always the same expressions on their faces, a slight sense of nausea as lights and music and people and the world spins and the motion of it makes it all the harder to grab hold of any one thing except what is already right there, moving with. The drowning, or the coming of the grey, the increasing sense that it is impending, that there is no escape, now matters, yet there is no keeping of it and it pulls away as one pulls closer, fleeting and fluttering. Why love this story so much, it is a ride on a wave of aliveness, of presence, it captures the heart, the mind, the imagination and keeps it bound for a length of time, when here there is nowhere else to go and nothing else matters, nothing intrudes for those moments and one is immersed, highs and lows, a completeness, and you do it every time. No fail, no miss. I haven't written frail-all here really, but gosh how I rode as I read, how I felt in the pits and deepest corners something, a touch, how I felt wonder at the outpouring, for this is how it read to me in any case, and a great sense of amazement, yes, that word again, for - another repetition - the simple genius of the journey of this chapter. Why are these comments, for me, so darned difficult to write, for to read is to feel, to comment is to classify. Put me in the 'love' group too.
Sweetest, I'll answer the question--and, this answer applies to the whole story. A chapter starts with a spark. There is the blank page or canvas, a nothingness so to speak. And from somewhere, a spark occurs. I can't tell you how or why and it can't be forced although it can be nurtured, although the best sparks just happen. For the longest time, those sparks were the images. I would create a fractal and from that image ideas would flow or jump forth. In time, I found many sparks in music, a lyric, a melody, a mood created from a song and a particular time. Sometimes the spark occurs in the dreamlike state before completely waking, or that crazy zoned out place when driving for hours down the highway (Ceru was born on the road) or those three and four hour flights, just sitting, thinking, listening, watching (this chapter I'm not so sure exists without the flight to Phoenix last week, without the crowds and sounds and the girl with the beautiful rosewood hued hair, who just happens to sit directly in front of me and reclines and places that hair right in front of me). Sometimes the spark comes from a need to express something in my own life, to craft in words a sight, a feeling, a mood, a desire (all of the 'sex' chapters were and will be written in the mood, at the height of sensation--I couldn't imagine writing about sex otherwise). Sometimes a spark occurs with a little wine or whiskey and several of the Von and Rog and John chapters, drinking snoot, were written under the influence. Some times the spark comes from reading someone else. Wolfe reminded me what great writing could look like. Boll, how to imply an image; Dickens, how to lose all inhibitions; Cormac, how to forget all the rules; and I could go on and on and on. So, where does an idea come from? I have no idea. I take no credit for them. I feel as if I watch, like I'm watching for shooting stars, and when they appear, I grab them, wrestle them into some sort of order and brand them as mine. :-D
The last sentence of your comment to Miss Storm, made me smile. I love the imagery of you wrestling stars to write. "Brand them as mine" - YES!
Thank you for your visit. The 'picture' was made before the Story was read, but once I read it, I could not resist! What fun!
I love the header by the way. She is so lovely in her gown, and boots. A nice contrast. The first time I saw it I was so caught up in the beauty of her face, I nearly missed her tough girl foot wear. She is gorgeous.
Jen
I LOOOOooooove Kyra's fan.
I recently bought a feathered fan.
But hers is WAY cooler.
Just stopping in to say hello& see what's new.
deena
I had just stumbled on this blog. Ingenious! :-)
Rolly, thanks for the kind words.
Deena, always a pleasure to see you dropping by. I plan on your visits for many years to come. :-)
Strumper, :-D and one more for good measure :-D
Jen, feel free to post more pics. Eyes, hair, legs--I'm not picky. :-D
Back home and caught back up. :)
Aren't you just the coolest!! I love the spontaneity of this post and I appreciate the way you wrote it. You placed the answers so perfectly, where it's a mystery, yet it's not.
From a reader's perspective, I do see this as a future--or even past! "new" character. I think it's someone we'd all love to know better. ;)
until next time,
--snow :)
Snow, welcome back. :-)
I took C to see the new Jackie Chan/Jet Li movie this weekend and the whole time I kept thinking of you. ;-)
Thanks for the kind words. So glad you liked this one. Don't be surprised if we see some more of this 'mysterious' character. You just might already know more about them than you think. :-D
This is so powerful! Since I started reading it I've had to stop and teach four violin lessons and then as I was finishing that fedx arrived with my brand new macbook and I've opened it and now I can't get any farther with that setup till I steal the internet from this computer so that is what I'll do now and hopefully before long I'll be back from the new one.
Oh, in case I don't make it back quickly, life's been nuts and I've not been on much which has meant even doing the meme thing in stages. One day I got Edna's email and downloaded hers to word so I could work offline, little knowing that when I got back to it I wouldn't be able to get online at all. So I got it typed up in the morning, went to the Verizon store and got my internet working again, uploaded my meme and then didn't have time to notify people so today I was going to do that (and still mean to) but at the moment I'm distracted by this shiny new project *grins* but anyway, this is your official notification that I'm tagging you for a meme.
Oooooooooh, a new Macbook. I went Apple about a year ago and have been madly in love with my MacbookPro. Is this your first Mac or just one in a long line?
grrrrrrrr my connection timed out. *starts over*
I have a used power mac but haven't really used it enough to get real comfortable on it. I did use it enough to decide that I could make the switch though from PC to mac.
So, which writing software do you use? I haven't bought any yet. I failed to download and install open office. Not sure why that didn't work but so far no luck. I was hoping I could get Star Office cause it costs a fraction of what MS Office costs. It isn't out for Mac. So my local writing friend uses MS Office. In the guild we pass files back and forth so I might need MS Office but I've not taken the plunge yet. Then before I take the plunge I need to decide how complete a version of it I need. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
W, I have both Word and Pages. Still, I find I usually do my writing on Google's Docs (totally free). With Google Docs, you can save your files as Word documents or you can share them online without having to download anything. Give it a try. You can't beat free. :-)
ooooooooh! I didn't know that existed. This will solve my problem of having stuff stored on my hard drive, also the problem of some of it being on one computer and some on the other. Thanks T! *does the naked happy dance*
W, besides wanting to see that happy naked dance, thanks for the image--I might need to do something about that in a minute--you have hit upon two things I love about Google docs. (1) Nothing is saved on my hard drive and hard drive space is always at a premium; and (2), likewise I use multiple computers and knowing I can access what I'm writing from any of them, make changes and all the rest is a godsend. Google is also working on the option to be able to work on your documents offline, so the only real drawback is being addressed. Have fun. Let me know how the naked dance shakes out. :-D
LOL. I'm glad you enjoyed the dance. I'm back on the Dell at the moment and have uploaded a few things. Need to upload a lot more. I really like the idea of getting some of my stuff off the hard drive. Once I've erased them, I'll go in and delete my old restore points, make a new one with them gone, etc. Probably wouldn't deter a real geek but would slow down the geek wannabees. The love poetry is the stuff I really want to make disappear from my computer. The husband does have an insatiable appetite for snooping.
W, you can dance naked for me anytime. :-D
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