The Dillio
Dear Reader,
I've decided to address a few topics that keep coming up in regards to the glory of sleepwalking. "What's it all mean?" I've been asked. "What happened to all the political stuff?" "What's with the 'workers players revolvers' motif?" "What's up with your poetry?" "How come you don't have new stuff up every day?" "What's the dillio, yo?"
Well, the dillio is this:
I say sleepwalking because sometimes you're going through life and it looks like you're going through the motions, but really, you're changing the world only it's so subtle that nobody suspects that it's taking place let alone that you're the one behind it all. And if you think about it, all roads lead to glory. Actually, all roads lead to a lot of different places, but there's bound to be some glory along the way. It's part of that whole 15 minutes of fame business. I'm not saying that all glory is deserved, but somewhere, somehow, sometime, someone will give you a pat on the back—maybe even one you don't deserve—and when it comes you'll lap it up or laugh it up or ... maybe you won't. Maybe it won't happen at all. You see, what I'm trying to say is why in the hell do you think that I know what it all means?
Like the political stuff? I mean Christ but that gets depressing. Sometimes it's more fun or liberating or enlightening to think about these pants, you know what I'm sayin'? All day long you're a worker who'd rather be a player, and if you're denied long enough you evolve into a revolver until the dream dissolves and you wake up at your desk in your tiny cubicle with the man's lackey breathing hoary breath down your neck. The merry-go-round—that's the motif, the poetry of life.
I ain't no poet by the way. I'm no powerful goddess. I have no answers. That's the dillio, yo.
As to why I don't have new stuff here every day... oh, I dunno. Put it this way: there's more to the blob than writing. By the way, you may be pleased to know that while I haven't submitted any work this year, some of the stuff I sent out in 2004 is still circulating, and I have recently received acceptances from Riverwind, 13th Moon: A Feminist Literary Journal, Fox Cry Review, and Compass Rose. In addition, I received a complimentary copy of Mudfish 14 today, with "They, of the Jungle" buried somewhere in there.
So don't think I'm slackin' over here. I'm just using this venue to stretch my writing wings in a different way. I'm playing, but I'm taking it seriously; I'm building up stamina and endurance so I can tackle my book about my mom. The political will raise its head up from time to time, but right now summer is upon us, and I'm gettin' out and about and I'd rather share that with you than kvetch about politicians and broken policies. Winter will be here soon enough, and then I'll be perfectly willing to get depressed again and immerse myself in cursing the crap that makes us all cringe. But for now, it's time to soak up as much Vitamin D as possible. Don't forget your sunscreen.
P.S. Thanks for asking. You're the best.
I've decided to address a few topics that keep coming up in regards to the glory of sleepwalking. "What's it all mean?" I've been asked. "What happened to all the political stuff?" "What's with the 'workers players revolvers' motif?" "What's up with your poetry?" "How come you don't have new stuff up every day?" "What's the dillio, yo?"
Well, the dillio is this:
I say sleepwalking because sometimes you're going through life and it looks like you're going through the motions, but really, you're changing the world only it's so subtle that nobody suspects that it's taking place let alone that you're the one behind it all. And if you think about it, all roads lead to glory. Actually, all roads lead to a lot of different places, but there's bound to be some glory along the way. It's part of that whole 15 minutes of fame business. I'm not saying that all glory is deserved, but somewhere, somehow, sometime, someone will give you a pat on the back—maybe even one you don't deserve—and when it comes you'll lap it up or laugh it up or ... maybe you won't. Maybe it won't happen at all. You see, what I'm trying to say is why in the hell do you think that I know what it all means?
Like the political stuff? I mean Christ but that gets depressing. Sometimes it's more fun or liberating or enlightening to think about these pants, you know what I'm sayin'? All day long you're a worker who'd rather be a player, and if you're denied long enough you evolve into a revolver until the dream dissolves and you wake up at your desk in your tiny cubicle with the man's lackey breathing hoary breath down your neck. The merry-go-round—that's the motif, the poetry of life.
I ain't no poet by the way. I'm no powerful goddess. I have no answers. That's the dillio, yo.
As to why I don't have new stuff here every day... oh, I dunno. Put it this way: there's more to the blob than writing. By the way, you may be pleased to know that while I haven't submitted any work this year, some of the stuff I sent out in 2004 is still circulating, and I have recently received acceptances from Riverwind, 13th Moon: A Feminist Literary Journal, Fox Cry Review, and Compass Rose. In addition, I received a complimentary copy of Mudfish 14 today, with "They, of the Jungle" buried somewhere in there.
So don't think I'm slackin' over here. I'm just using this venue to stretch my writing wings in a different way. I'm playing, but I'm taking it seriously; I'm building up stamina and endurance so I can tackle my book about my mom. The political will raise its head up from time to time, but right now summer is upon us, and I'm gettin' out and about and I'd rather share that with you than kvetch about politicians and broken policies. Winter will be here soon enough, and then I'll be perfectly willing to get depressed again and immerse myself in cursing the crap that makes us all cringe. But for now, it's time to soak up as much Vitamin D as possible. Don't forget your sunscreen.
P.S. Thanks for asking. You're the best.
posted by mpho3 at 10:03 PM
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