NaNoWriMo!!!!

it's almost october, which means that it's nearly november, which means that NaNoWriMo is nearly upon us!
what is NaNoWriMo? National Novel Writing Month, silly!

this is the delightful part of the year where i like to psyche myself up for an impossible task. every year, i say to myself, this time, i'm gonna make it. i just have to get past the outline and the awkward first chapters. this time, i'm going to be a WriMo!

so far, i've failed miserably, constructing nothing put more tension. but, rather than stressing myself out this year, i've decided to give myself a few outs. sure, i'm make another failed attempt, but then i'll nurse my spirits with a few more challenges.

1. writing fellowships
if artists can get paid to sit around and dream about the perfect piece, why shouldn't i be able to do the same with things that people actually care about? i mean, seriously, i need a patron...


2.the three day novel
a website that encourages you to do the same thing as NaNoWriMo, but in three days instead of thirty... i suppose my commitophobia would be best employed here. three very serious days of writing until i can't see anymore, that sounds like a dream. i'd planned on getting a cheap hotel room, locking myself in with a whole lot of booze a la hunter s. thompson, and writing my life's work.

3. the drinking and writing festival
there's also apparently a festival in chicago. i dare say i have found a harmonious marriage of two things i do rather well, and it's only a stone's throw (or hung-over megabus ride) away.


all that decided, it's time to brainstorm my NaNoWriMo novel. i'll take any suggestions, explicit photographys, or candy necklaces you aren't using...

the way the sunset looks off my balcony

the whole thing is sort of amazing, really. dusky purple overtaking flames of orange that die quietly at our fingertips. the end of an era each evening as we gaze longingly toward the west.

there is magic in the twilight hours, as we've all come to know. i find myself waiting impatiently for those moments, pacing back and forth across the floor as if waiting for a lover.

the dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.
-t.s. eliot

this is how i've been feeling.

Una mattina mi son svegliato,
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
Una mattina mi son svegliato,
e ho trovato l'invasor.
O partigiano, portami via,
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
O partigiano, portami via,
ché mi sento di morir.
E se io muoio da partigiano,
(E se io muoio su la montagna)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
E se io muoio da partigiano,
(E se io muoio su la montagna)
tu mi devi seppellir'.
E seppellire lassù in montagna,
(E tu mi devi sepellire)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
E seppellire lassù in montagna,
(E tu mi devi sepellire)
sotto l'ombra di un bel fior.
Tutte le genti che passeranno,
(E tutti quelli che passeranno)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
Tutte le genti che passeranno,
(E tutti quelli che passeranno)
Mi diranno «Che bel fior!»
(E poi diranno «Che bel fior!»)
«È questo il fiore del partigiano»,
(E questo é il fiore del partigiano)
o bella, ciao! bella, ciao! bella, ciao, ciao, ciao!
«È questo il fiore del partigiano,
(E questo é il fiore del partigiano)
morto per la libertà!

i love a lot; i just hate people for making me regret my decision to love them.

walking through the rain, the night around us like a cheap blanket. passing strangers' silhouettes against siding. my toes slide across the surface of my sandals.

we hopscotch our way into the bar, one leg bent behind like a broken flamingo. you pull your sweater off against the heat and despair. we are young and flamboyant; the audience is melancholy and subdued. i feel guilty for smiling, rubbing my happy existence in their long porcelain faces.

i talk through the first set, hardly glancing back as the lonely troubadour marches in place, out of time. he looks longingly at all of us, focuses on you and i because we are the only ones with courage to stand, the only ones willing to roar laughter and stories into the suffocating atmosphere. he tries to silence us with those eyes, but we brush them off like a bad memory.

they don't matter, because what matters is this moment, and not that one.

sitting at the table, we find ourselves surrounded by a harem on beautiful strangers. introductions were made, but i've never been one for names. each one simply became a shade of her or she, blending into the background din only to be coaxed from it by a clever statement or mythological sorrow. (i forgot her all, soon enough.)

always, it is never a night without the cards. small, crisp and compact deck of wonder, everyone gathered round in a hush... almost reverently, they disbelieve. this isn't real, i have to know. i cease to be another one of them, and instantly am turned to a gypsy. or, the doomed prophetess fulfilling the duty of damned messenger once again.