Tonight, I feel like I could swing
the world by its tail and toss it into the next county.
"I loved your poem," she said. "LOVED it."
You weren't supposed to read it yet,
I said, you cheated.
"I know. But it's really
good. I sympathize."
I'm glad you liked it
, I said.
Even though our writing groups got interrupted, I'll let you bend the rules. Just this once.
Then after class, going down the hallway, her friend said, "I really liked your poem."
Oh, Mary let you read it too?
"Mm-hm. I really liked it."
She's such a cheater.
"It'll be even better. When you read it, read it slow
. With your voice it will sound so good."
I'd bet it would sound even better if I whispered it, I didn't say.
I hightailed it to the parking lot to grab a shirt, made it to seventh hour, changed into the shirt, performed, with the rest of my group, a Reader's Theatre piece that knocked 'em dead (Chelsea M. is my favorite old Jewish lady, ever) then went to Cheba Hut 'cause it was a half day, gobbled 12 inches of pastrami and pepperocinis on white, got dropped off at school, banged out an article and a maze for the newspaper, came home, worked on the play which is due in rough draft form next Monday and is nowhere close to ready, fell in love with my family like I do every night, ate spaghetti, picked up my little brothers from RE, rocked Fourbanger
in the car, wrote more, filled up my gas tank almost halfway, went to the gym, came back, wrote more.
Orson Welles used to be rehearsing a play on one end of NYC and doing a radio show on the other end, so he bought an ambulance, siren and all, to get him from one place to the other on the quick. There was no law against it. That sounds about right.
Now my arms are sore but I'm still wondering how far I could throw the world after I wind up a couple times.
Oh, and did I mention I'm going on the Theatre Co. trip to London over Spring Break because I have, God's honest, the coolest parents in the history of parents?
Into the next county. At least.
Mark Steyn is the fucking bomb