March 15, 2013
A few days ago at the park, I was hanging upside down on the bars and Enzo said, “You’re exposing your butt to the gods. Like a little tea cup.”
That’s right, little. Never mind that last night he was doing eeny-meeny-miney-moe to decide which of my butt cheeks was bigger. (Right one.)
I’m looking for a new title for my annual diaries. Life of Johnston was fine when it was just me and Boswell and Johnson, but I’m working on my 2012 Diary (which is just like this only less mature) and that title doesn’t really fit anymore. Exposing My Butt to the Gods, is definitely in the running.
Yesterday morning on my way to work I was having thoughts that seemed so smart at the time that I got off my bike and sent myself a text message. Here’s what it says:
English make you smart wacky mixed up history like being multi-lingual. So many chances for surprising associations. Russian. Herzen says good language. All russian wives can write too.
I do want to read Herzen again, though, and that memoir by Anna Dostoyevskay, which I’d way rather read than anything by her husband. I had to go online to figure out how to spell her name, and I see she also wrote a diary. Yay!
I have some more notes here that I may as well get down. These are from a bunch of pink post-its, so that means I wrote them at work. I like this method of writing down notes word-for-word. It’s so easy. Just typing:
Makes me think how surprisingly unsturdy I am as a writer. Like I had to write an author biography for Amazon. This shouldn’t be hard for me since all I write about is myself, but all I could get out was about three excruciating sentences. That’s why my “Dear Maxes” are so important to me. After I write that, I know where I am. In public, sure, but it’s not like I’m singing the national anthem at the Super Bowl. I can talk, I don’t have to shout.
Well, that’s enough. By the way, I started writing this around 4:30. Danger zone.