I’m not sure where the weekend went. It was a great weekend, though.
The blogging discussion went relatively well. Good questions, wonderful comments from those who attended. Thank you so very, very much. You made my day.
The reading was quite fun. Had some fellow writers say they liked my stuff. I read two pieces: the memoir about the clarinet solo, and the story about the mole. I think the mole story took some of the people by surprise, and the coordinator/organizer of the literary arts portion of the festival told me she loved it and we talked about it a little bit. I told her I was reading some Neil Gaiman when the inspiration for the story came, then she told me she’d read some Neil Gaiman, then we talked briefly about Neil Gaiman. It was a very surreal experience, because, one, Neil Gaiman tends to take you to that kind of a place; and two, a real writer was validating me.
The other readers were marvelous, too.Essays, poetry. Only three readers contributed to the festival, and we’re all in the same ward. Woot, woot!
Saw some awesome art, listened to some phenemonal music. Made some friends. And, um, told some stories that not a lot of people know.
And that I will never blog about in great detail.
So you can just stop wondering/asking/begging/imploring/trying to make me sing about it.
Went to a birthday party. It was a Clue birthday party. Mugshots. White-tape body outlines. Speed Clue. Movie playing in the background. Dancing. Costumes. It was a lot of fun.
Church was incredible. The testimonies were powerful; my soul was hungry, and then it wasn’t.
Dinner was fun.
After church, I ended up taking a four-hour nap which, altered my sleep last night such that I only slumbered maybe three hours. Possibly less. Probably less.
And my dreams were wonky. One was about a job interview. The lady interviewing me had a blue face.
Also, one of the boys I used to have a crush on was dating a girl with blonde, curly hair.
Now I have a headache. I could either:
stop meeting new people
stop feeling sorry for myself
stop relating to artists
start doing drugs
sleep as long as possible
cluck like a chicken more
drink more water
do a little dance
make a little love
get down tonight
Oh, man. I’m itching to do some real writing. I can’t believe I’m actually skipping days blogging. Seriously, it’s been a year and a half since that happened. Something like that.
I mean, this is my month after all. And some really remarkable things have occurred every day so far.
As they should.