The title of this post is from (at least one of) my favorite Jack White lines of all times. If I ever had the money, I would totally buy his old house. It would be like Jack Kerouac buying Charlie Parker’s house. Jack White lived on Seminole Street even. That’s just too perfect.
Charlie Parker looked like Buddha
Charlie Parker, who recently died
Laughing at a juggler on the TV
After weeks of strain and sickness,
Was called the Perfect Musician.
And his expression on his face
Was as calm, beautiful, and profound
As the image of the Buddha
Represented in the East, the lidded eyes
The expression that says “All Is Well”
This was what Charlie Parker
Said when he played, All is Well.
You had the feeling of early-in-the-morning
Like a hermit’s joy, or
Like the perfect cry of some wild gang
At a jam session,
Charlie burst his lungs to reach the speed
Of what the speedsters wanted
And what they wanted
Was his eternal Slowdown.
Jack Kerouac reading “Charlie Parker”
But at the rate I’m going, I won’t have enough money to buy a cup of coffee. I’ve discovered that my life is on the “B” list of writing. I have included an excerpt from an email to Laura to explain:
Okay, so all of our assignments were sent to the professor in the “dropbox” section of the class website. It’s like an AIM screen so you can send a message and then attach the Word document file to the message. It’s different than the email section and everything you get in your class email gets automatically sent to your home email address. All right. Well, I just finished writing the anthology and sent it in, mind you he never said when it was due, but since the class is over tomorrow, I just did it today and sent it in.
So, I’m looking at the stuff I had sent in the list and it says in my inbox I had messages. Never noticed that before and never realized he was sending us messages that way. Well, for my story, the rough draft that I sent last week, he gave me a freaking 80%! He said that the story “fell flat and needed to be longer.” Okay, first of all, yeah, it wasn’t great, but he kept saying that the word count wasn’t something to concern yourself with. So I responded and said, “Well, I hope the revision was better for you, thanks.” The stories were only suppose to be like 1500 words max and I always went over anyway. The final draft that he wanted three days after the freaking rough draft was done, ended up being 4000+ words. I told Fran that if he gives me a B for the class I’m going to be pissed. I really want to know how he can give me a B for doing a better job than these other fruit cakes in this stupid class. Fran said, “Yeah, if he likes that other shit and gives them an A, that would really suck.” What the hell? I have no idea where these people come from. The guy never put any of our grades up except for the notebook assignments that were like 5 points each and I always got all of my points for that stuff. Now it says my Grade to Date is 170 out of 190 points, bringing my average down to an 89.57%. Ugh. If he gives me a B on these last two things I’ll get a B and be pissed off.
Man, that makes me mad…
But I’m going out tonight and having dinner with Fran before hand. I have a new gray skirt I want to wear but I don’t know if it’ll end up being right for the occasion. We were talking about this yesterday, how if you can’t get your look to be exactly the way you want it, then you don’t bother dressing up at all. I hate when I go out because I always have this idea in my head about how iI want to look but it never comes across as exact or perfect so I’m never happy with what I have on or what I look like when I go out.
Maybe that’s why I’m a “B” quality writer; because I can’t make things turn out the way I imagine them. Sigh…
Now I’m looking through the clothes that I’ve strategically piled on the laundry room floor, trying to find something decent to wear tonight. You know, when I went out all the time before, I had a specific collection of stuff that I kept in easy reach. I never was happy with the outfits back then either, but at least I knew what I had to pick and choose from. Now since I go out every once in a while, I’ve tossed the dress up stuff in places that aren’t visible to the naked eye. I have to search for it, spray some wrinkle remover on it, hang it up and know damn well that I’m going to hate it once I’m running late at 9 o’clock, wishing I had prepared a little better.
I have a few options: the black and white polka dot dress with a black t-shirt underneath, the red jumper with a white t-shirt, the gray skirt with a red, black and silver t-shirt or the black on with the buttons that I will most likely opt for but I think it’s too big and long like a tunic and it won’t work with a poofy, flowy skirt. It’s so hard to be a girl sometimes. It’s especially hard when you try to look nice, get there, realize you don’t look great, see girls with better dresses and better shoes and better hair and better makeup. The worst is realizing that probably no guy in that place gives a shit either way.
And, P.S., WordPress, no, I am not going to buy into your new upgrade this time. Not until I know for damn sure everything is locked, sealed, saved and safe. Until then, I’ll deal with the old just fine.