You wasted life why wouldn't you waste death
10:48 a.m. on 2005-04-20
Have I admitted to myself yet that I'm writing a novel? Yes self! It's just that bad. You're an "aspiring" writer. This novel I'm writing is loosely, poetically based on concepts and theories of physics. There is a lot of research involved, not even including all the pot brownies, mushrooms, morphine withdrawal, and long drives out into the radioactive desert that are required to attempt to grasp the demensions beyond the 4th, even in a poetical sense. But I'm a mommy now, and who has the time for all that debauchery? So who knows when I will finish this thing. Yesterday, however, I did whisk myself and the baby out into the desert near Hanford, where we sat by the sick, unhappy waters of the Columbia and tried to dodge wayward neutrons. I did get a couple of pages written, but spent most of the time throwing rocks into the water with my daugher and watching the cloud shadows wander across the ridges on the west bank. When I tried to write, the baby would steal my pen and go running out into the river. When I was a kid, it was all phlox and sagebrush out there, between the unhealthy acupuncture of the gigantic power lines leading from Hanford and Priest Rapids. But now the place is being inundated by folks who ostensibly move way out there because they love the desert, but then they scratch it all apart, drown it with irrigation to feed their gluttonous golf courses and ridiculous landscaping and end up changing the character of the place entirely. They might as well just live in fucking Seattle now. At least there they wouldn't have to endure the subatomic particles' constant assault on their DNA. But who cares. Who fucking cares anymore. Bind it all up with roads, marinate it in plutonium, turn it into a dusty catbox for the turds of our society for all I fucking care. Can't stand in the way of progress.
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