August Writing Day 8
Okay…got the timer set…and GO!
I have never felt as self-conscious about writing as I do about this. Usually, I wait ‘til the last minute and go from there. Desperation is a wonderful muse. And now, I choke. I haven’t got the faintest idea what I should do. My fingers are moving at random but they are doing an extremely good job. I don’t thank them enough. Have you ever thought about thanking your body parts? I do sometimes. I’ll thank my hand for having the foresight to move out of the way of the knife so fast when I’m chopping onions for dinner and it didn’t get cut. I apologize to my body as well. My back and my feet seem to get apologized to the most. I think if I don’t acknowledge them, maybe they’ll get mad and quit. Or go on strike. Sounds pretty dumb, doesn’t it? I suppose it is, but I’m going to keep doing it because it’s best not to take chance with these things. I wonder a lot about my body. Other bodies too, but mine in particular. I wonder just what is it a spleen does and where it is exactly. Would I faint if I saw it? Maybe I would because it was mine. Seeing your own spleen cannot happen for any good or sane reason. Seeing someone else’s wouldn’t bother me at all. I have a very high gross-out threshold. I’ve hunted enough that I’m used to it and it’s just flesh after all. I could eve attend an autopsy and be OK with it. I wouldn’t eat during the procedure, but only because I think it would be profoundly disrespectful. Be able to go out to lunch after though.
I wonder if this has anything to do with how I look at death. To me, the body is just a body. What happens to it after death seems so insignificant compared to what happened in life. I want to be remembered for what I DID, not for what I looked like in my coffin. Which I don’t want anyway. I remember the first funeral I went to. A friend of my parents was killed in a car accident. I was horrified by people saying how natural she looked. I wanted to scream: NO SHE DIDN’T!!! SHE LOOKED DEAD!! I know that death is natural and is a part of life but dear gods I don’t want that to happen to me. No funeral, just a memorial service (before I die, so I can go too) and then cremate me and scatter my ashes in the Library of Congress so I’ll finally have time to read all the books people kept telling me I should read.
PS. Does it count if I forget to start the timer? SHEESH!!
I have never felt as self-conscious about writing as I do about this. Usually, I wait ‘til the last minute and go from there. Desperation is a wonderful muse. And now, I choke. I haven’t got the faintest idea what I should do. My fingers are moving at random but they are doing an extremely good job. I don’t thank them enough. Have you ever thought about thanking your body parts? I do sometimes. I’ll thank my hand for having the foresight to move out of the way of the knife so fast when I’m chopping onions for dinner and it didn’t get cut. I apologize to my body as well. My back and my feet seem to get apologized to the most. I think if I don’t acknowledge them, maybe they’ll get mad and quit. Or go on strike. Sounds pretty dumb, doesn’t it? I suppose it is, but I’m going to keep doing it because it’s best not to take chance with these things. I wonder a lot about my body. Other bodies too, but mine in particular. I wonder just what is it a spleen does and where it is exactly. Would I faint if I saw it? Maybe I would because it was mine. Seeing your own spleen cannot happen for any good or sane reason. Seeing someone else’s wouldn’t bother me at all. I have a very high gross-out threshold. I’ve hunted enough that I’m used to it and it’s just flesh after all. I could eve attend an autopsy and be OK with it. I wouldn’t eat during the procedure, but only because I think it would be profoundly disrespectful. Be able to go out to lunch after though.
I wonder if this has anything to do with how I look at death. To me, the body is just a body. What happens to it after death seems so insignificant compared to what happened in life. I want to be remembered for what I DID, not for what I looked like in my coffin. Which I don’t want anyway. I remember the first funeral I went to. A friend of my parents was killed in a car accident. I was horrified by people saying how natural she looked. I wanted to scream: NO SHE DIDN’T!!! SHE LOOKED DEAD!! I know that death is natural and is a part of life but dear gods I don’t want that to happen to me. No funeral, just a memorial service (before I die, so I can go too) and then cremate me and scatter my ashes in the Library of Congress so I’ll finally have time to read all the books people kept telling me I should read.
PS. Does it count if I forget to start the timer? SHEESH!!