Hello to all fish swimming around in the weedy depths of the river, loons on dollars, mice in mousetraps and gross, sweaty old people riding their bikes with no shirt on.
Today I went for a bike ride. Bad idea, considering it’s practically the temperature of the inside of a well-cooked ham out there? Maybe. But anyway, bike I did besides that. As I was pedaling up by the side of the canal, a lyric for a song popped into my head: Up the hill by the stream is the nicest house I’ve ever seen. I wonder who lives there, and if they even care. I’m going to put that into my next song. I’ve been feeling in a poetic mood lately. Maybe that has something to do with the enormous hunk of English literature sitting next to the computer, which I pick up to flip through as I wait for the internet to load. It’s one of those university edition thingies that have every boring poem in the universe stuffed inside. Anyway it’s a very, very slow computer. Maybe I should install Adobe Flash Player and maybe I should listen to those Please Update windows that keep popping up, but I’m not convinced. I think my dear old computer is getting fed up with me– before the Adobe Flash Player upgrade was just a little box in the corner of the screen with an exclamation mark, and when I turned the computer on today it was a HUGE box that took up the entire screen, telling me this was Urgent! Update your Flash Player! (You piece of crap!)
I haven’t yet. Besides, I refuse to listen to my computer. My computer can’t tell me what to do.
To expand on my poetic mood: I’ve realized, flipping through that hunk of boring English, that not only are all great writers insane (in most of the bios about different writers it explains how so-and-so spent three years in a lunatic asylum, so-and-so cut his ear off, so-and-so wrote an entire ballad about his cat and God), and now I’m starting to worry that I’ll end up being insane, too. I mean, I’m not going to say I’m a great writer. (Yes, I am. Who said that?) I just don’t know if I really want to be that person sitting in a small room with a bed without sheets or a pillow so I can’t strangle or suffocate myself, writing poems about cats and God and stuff.
In any case. I’ve just typed up a storm during the weekend, a twenty five page Hunger Games rip-off that I plan to upload to a fan fiction site. I’ve been thinking up song lyrics like nobody’s business. The other day somebody told me I looked like an artist. ‘Do you play music?’ ‘Why, yes,’ I said. ‘Do you play guitar?’ ‘Uh, yes, I do.’ Apparently all the artistic stuff is starting to boil over in me. Soon I’ll be writing poems about dust bunnies and making friends with inanimate objects. Not like that’s a bad thing, I mean, the computer speaker’s got a great sense of humor.
Nah, don’t worry. I’m still sane.
And here’s my poem about the computer:
O, Dear Computer
Mine old friend, of plastic and wire;
Tis a short time, I fear, before he bursts into fire
For ten long years he has stood as a guide,
To my senseless poor poetry,
In him, I confide.
But soon the days will catch up with him,
And the promising glow of life will seem dim
And therefore, I shall be obliged to divide
The files within him to one, and one side
Before all is lost, and I pay the cost
O, dear computer, I fain imagine my loss.
Farewell sincerely, my dear Blog-Reader, ~Onceabasementdog