Well no-fucking wonder

(I guess I forgot to post this one last week, when life was good.)

The index finger moves down the calendar weeks. Finger prints rub over time. Wipe your finger off the wall, and, if you look closely you will see, inbetween the lines that define you, time that has passed. These are the wrinkles that really define how old we are.

Look again. Squint if you have to. Etched in the creases. Deep in the valley are rivers of what was. Time defined.

People ask, "Where has the time has gone?" It's there. Seeped inside your skin. You have memories, even if you don't remember. They're in you. And there should be no question about where it went or if it was wasted.

"Time flies," people all too often say. But it doesn't. You're around for it until your demise. It's here and so are you. And it's what you make of it. It's going to pass but you're awake for it until you pass out.

"You take your chances," a 5-year sober alcholic told a wino who got kicked out of the library this day on the street car. He said he was because he was drunk and didn't care. He took a fifth into the library because it's a warm, dry place to drink cheap booze. He lost his privledges. And as the man shuffles off the trolly it's easy to feel sorry for him, but harder to try to help him. The empathetic often doesn't want to be the company of those they feel for.

And so, when I take the bus home tomorrow night from the Willamette Week for the last time, I won't be questioning where the last three months of my life went. I'm aware of where I was. And though my finger prints are worn down a little more by pressing the keys of the iMac I'm typing on, the ruts still house the memories made, the stories untold, and the time taken aback. Maybe it's the warn prints that make it seem that the memories are over-flowing the inset seems. Or maybe I just have more to look back on.

This intern is hungry, and is hoping to be filled in the near future. Time in front is what we have to worry about. It hasn't happened yet, isn't dead, isn't yet alive. Sure, it will be before we know it, as another time cliche spews out of me. But when it's here we'll know it. And should make the most of it. Because before we know it's gone and were awaiting the future once again.

If only this was my non-pay internship

Well, I don't get paid to write here. Not yet. I don't get paid to write anywhere. It sucks, but that's life. I mean, I can barely spell anyway. Who's gonna pay me to write hogwash bric-a-brack? Yeah, no one I've met. Yet.

In the meantime I've been whoring my self out. Not just here. Not just for the evil empire I slave for for at $8.50 an hour. I do it for nothing for an alternative weekly that you, even outside of Puddletown, can read. You might even be able to find the bits I've written over the past two months if you click carefully. I've done two attributed snips. And gobs of little things not much longer than my name,and thus not attribution. But, I've accomplished what I came here to do, and that was to get a byline. I've been published again! That and an internship will get you a cup of coffee, is what I've learned. And not much else. As of yet, you say, you optimistic reader.

Thank you.

Oh, find my time-consuming sentence construction, along with loads of other writing by people actually getting paid on a simple, easy to remember site with lots of w's.


It's free. And it's not for long. Internship up March 1. Then, they'll have to pay me. Or then, I'll come back here to the nice warm blanket of unedited, uncommented (few exceptions), blog o mine. Please feel free to comment here, or on the weekly newspaper website. E-mail, call, or talk to me on the street. Mention for how much I'm loved and mean to the small world of afterthoughts.

Couldn't be here without each and every one of you. Until next time my cyber sidekicks...