On Pleasant Days

Warm again today. So warm I had to wear shoes. Nice breeze, and when it hits the trees all the flying petals and leaves and pollen look just like a rainbow snowstorm. The window is open and I can hear someone outside playing guitar or something, but I can't see them. Think about the satisfaction of having more of a paper written than you have left to write, and think about how good a Thin Mint tastes.

Last night after "So You Think Your Story Is Finished? Then Send It To the New Yorker" class, my friends and I forwent our homework session to do a dramatic reading of the infamous story "My Immortal." Again. And tonight is the Ani DiFranco concert. The way I've been acting, it's almost like the crushing workload of Egyptian mythology, creative writing, comic-bookery, Gilbert & Sullivan, Darío, and Bach didn't exist. Horrible.

Today, thinking about places. We discussed them in class, how people collect them and how full of story they are. I remember millionaire castles, cinnamon dust, summer swamp stench, and meningitis prevention medication that turned my friends' pee orange, but not mine. Want to write about everywhere I've been and everything I've done and haven't. I wonder if everyone feels this way, at the very least everyone who writes. I think they do.

My life is a filler of pages, and some days it's not all that interesting.

Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield