Threw out my back and can’t trace it to a unique incident, at least any other time I could recall lifting amplifiers or tyres or digging in a garden, something that made sense to blame. Precarious sacrum, please be friends with the rest of this body again, I’ll honour you with yoga mats. Revisited Welcome To the Monkey House, big gap between reading it in grade nine and now, fastened as I am to a 21rst century mortgage. I missed a lot the first time, keep wishing I could adapt these sweet brilliant stories for theatre. Especially the story about the kid left alone at home who inadvertently causes murder, or the guy who hated a jazz father who himself secretly plays juke joints when no one’s looking or the title story about the suicide studios, population explosions and the re-ignition of their sex lives. For school, working on my own long story which feels like a game. Failing, means tripping on the slippery slope of caring about the imaginary reader instead of focusing on pleasing the actual writer. The part that’s currently sticky is how to address a certain villain, how to make them more than two dimensional. Sort of like writing on the piano and how to not have the left hand just play accompaniment. Hunched over writing, on a sinking couch probably not good for the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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