Freelance resources/articles/etc.
Many changes lately. I’m now finding myself at home with a lot of time. I still have a zillion things to do, but also nothing. I’m feeling a strange pressure to figure out what I want to do with my life in the next month or so. I’m going back and forth in my head between trying to freelance full time for awhile to see if I can pull it off, and just working my ass off to get another steady, secure, staff position somewhere, doing something—whatever it is I want to be doing with my life.
I’m excited, and had a great day on Friday that consisted of a picnic with my boyfriend in the park and a noon showing of Indiana Jones. I’m also feeling very disoriented (that’s been true for a few weeks now), and unsure of what my next step should be.
And did anyone see that whole Iraqi blog hacking thing here? I saved a screen shot of it. Bizarre. I don’t think this is really the blog you want to be taking down, Iraqi hacker types who love playing guitar.
One of the things that’s been taking up a lot of my time lately, and that I’m excited to be able to devote more time to is the children’s lit blog I’ve been talking about starting for years, which is up now, though still somewhat under construction.
Take a look. Pass it around. Send me jobs.
I also went to my college reunion over Memorial Day Weekend. It was very bizarre, much less relaxing than I’d hoped, but fun, and also not nearly as scary as I’d worried it would be.
Bah. I’m excited for the new daily routines I’m scheming. Just have to figure out which way to scheme the rest of things. My friends are great. I’ve been really surprised at how many people have been willing to help me and send my name to people they know and vouch for me. Thanks.
Clarke has started a b-log. It’s very him, and therefore hilarious and goofy, a little strange, and damn entertaining and enjoyable. And I love it. (And him.)
Enjoy: With TV Came Happiness
Layover
Charles Bukowski
Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men- poor folks-
work.
That moment- to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it’s only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.