She Writes in Similes

But she never smiles.

And here I thought they were metaphors.

I asked a man if he had been reading my story. The answer was no. He then responded: he doesn't write in similes himself, but appreciates a writer who knows how to do it well. Oh, I can do it well. But here I thought they were metaphors.

Repetitive.

Valentine's Day was a most unattractive holiday. Was it yesterday?

Thirteen minutes ago, and Thank God it's over.

I got a box of candy, at the most unromantic time of day, mid-afternoon, and a card with my name misspelled.

How any man can misspell my name is a mystery.

Sure, there are variations...but he knows my name, and isn't Rocket Science!

-- It's not Robecca Steam, either...



God, I love this new Monster High doll! She reminds me of METROPOLIS (1927)...or perhaps Tik-Tok, from RETURN TO OZ.

No, my name is extremely common. -- No, it can't be common!

It's Charley Chase's Newest/Biggest Fan. And I spent the evening cooking supper, cleaning house, doing laundry, washing dishes, scrubbing counters, sweeping floors, etc. because that's what real love gets you: a kid to feed, to take care of. I read her the lunch menu for tomorrow, and sure Mom, I'll eat a corndog in the cafeteria so you don't have to roll out of bed early to pack me a sandwich. God, help me remember to give her two bucks lunch money; take the book back to the library; wash a load of towels and washrags before she comes home and needs another bath.

Real love. And no hot dates.

I walked the trashcan down the driveway beneath starlight, and let my head swirl around a fantasy of my congregating amongst the crowd of the Algonquin Round Table; of my being a writer in 1920s New York, and meeting the likes of, and hoping for romance with: Harpo Marx and/or George S. Kaufman.



This was all induced by my after supper 'reading' of the Marx Bros Scrapbook.

-- I only recently found it, thanks to digging through unpacked boxes in the under-stairs closet. It was in a box marked 'On The Bar', with Chico's biography, and my worn-out copy of Leonard Maltin's Movie Guide.

Huzzah.

Eventually, I'll find my copy of THE STORY OF MANKIND, and send it to the Marx Bros Scientist. Then I'll find my copy of SPEAK EASILY, and watch Thelma Todd get drunk with Buster Keaton.

I wish I could drunk with Buster Keaton...and finish my damn short story.

I've gotten so obsessed with Charley Chase, I'm having a hard time concentrating on the Brothers. Thought if I looked through the Scrapbook, I'd be re-inspired.

Making my heart fall in love for
the sake of my
art.

I've gotten to the point where I don't care if lots of people read my fiction; I cared so much at first, but now, if I could just finish this one story, I think I'd be happy.

I've been writing nonfiction pieces, these last few 'dark' nights -- after a wave of madness hit me, sure, but so hard and so fast did it hit me, I ended up not in the basement, but in the dirt underneath it -- and haven't been posting them. Obviously. I'm J.D. Salinger. (Or am I 'like' J.D. Salinger??) Filing my work into a safe deposit box. Too scared to let you read it.

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Written several hours ago. I almost buried it.

As watermarked, the picture of Robecca Steam is from Paul Nomad's Idle Hands. Be sure to check out his great coverage of Toy Fair 2012.

Also: The painting (above) is on permanent display at the Algonquin Hotel, and is entitled 'A Vicious Circle', by Natalie Ascencios. Her official website is HERE.

Anyone else want to dress up like a gent or a flapper, and go reenact an all night, "strange place," Algonquin poker game? -- Keaton and I will bring the beer. Or the wine. Or whatever poison you like. I'm rhyming again! Which the dirt beneath the basement tells me, is always a good sign.

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