I hope you folks feel lucky. I almost titled this one “My Poe, Poe Brain”
😀
Pretty sure I left it here, somewhere.
Probably under the pile of library books about Poe, by Poe, by people who like/hate/worship/wish to toss Poe down a well.
Guess what my research project and presentation is over?
I suppose I should quit whining about it.1
Being a 40+ year old, female survivor of the Goth wars, of course I love me some Poe. I do think that in many2 ways he was a sick man. Didn’t detract from his writing, however. Like so many geniuses, he skated on the supremely thin ice of sanity. Fortunately for him, whenever his foot popped through, he found new words.
But the real truth is that writing, esp. fiction writing, is like the very best drug ever. And I am a total junkie. I love, love, love the written word. The written world.
I like stringing together words in ways that nobody has thought of yet. I like knowing that I say something like, “… hints of honey and cream light…” and you see the dawn’s slow fingers caressing the window sheers.
It isn’t just my words that I am addicted to. Reading is the other side of the coin. I had the thought that maybe other folk’s words are like methadone – words that soothe in the absence of the true spike of writing your own stuff.
Voila! Mostly text/school books.
Gaming & source books.
Am on a carbless, Steven King kick, I see.
Hm. Maybe.
If that is so, then it’s the best methadone on the planet. So many words. So many worlds. In the right combination, words can bring understanding, peace, anger, love, grim acceptance, escape. They are the most amazing magic we are capable of working.
I had another piece of the dream, this morning. It was tiny, just a fragment. But it seemed utterly and completely real. And, before anyone says anything: yes, my head is a strange place, sometimes.
Peacocks rained, drowning from the sky. The garden was filled with uncaring men, who wiped the purple waters from their face, shouldered their rifles and moved forward. Loud speakers carried by automatons blared a rave version of the “Snake Dance”.
I have a test in Personality Psychology in about 2 hours. I need to study a bit more to make sure that I have the vagaries of Freud’s cocaine-dipped, fame-chasing nonsense all straight in my head. Otherwise, this post’d be quite a bit longer.
As ‘tis, I will likely return to this topic because, WTH is wrong with some people?!
Ahem.
On Facebook this morning, I saw a post by a women’s sweat equity group (The Sweaty Betties, if you’re inclined to look them up) stating:
Pictured: Way more dedication to exercise than I have.
“No matter what your opinion of Madonna… she sure has taken damn good care of herself!”
With which I agree. She has – at least for the past decade, many more – worked very hard on her physical body.
However, the comments were more than a bit infuriating:
“Must be nice to be able to have all that money! Look, so plastic!”
“LOL, plastic surgery!”
“Ew, old thighs!”
Etcetera, etcetera.
All the money in the world can’t buy a healthy body. That is the result of setting a course for yourself and sticking to it. Also? The whole “ick, she’s old!” does not, in fact, erase said hard work or make her less than what she is. Additionally, she’s what? 50-something?
I run into this sort of thing at school, albeit not because I look like Madonna. It’s more, “Why’re you in college, sucking up all the learning in the room, you old person, you?”
*snarl, gibber, snarl*
Yes. Definitely coming back to this topic when I have some time.
