A Treatise on Thwarted Ambition
By Anne Chudobiak
None of the buses I waited for this morning ever came. My travelling companion was the sort to express his frustration verbally: “Poo poo ca ca!” (This trait may well have been inherited from his mother, who saw fit en route to curse at a stranger, “This is a pedestrian crosswalk, a—hole!”) All of this extra anger somehow added an hour and half to our morning routine, cutting into my prime writing time, which I’m not even supposed to use for blogging, but there you go. If you want an explanation for this Mickey Mouse post, all you have to do is look outside my window at all of that white stuff obscuring the pavement.
I wanted of course to write something much more beautiful. Call it a treatise on thwarted ambition. But it got too long, too quickly. I was going to interweave a reflection on curling (why did my last team come to a broom-throwing demise? Why do I always throw take-out weight?) with an account of
everyone-my-age-who-I-know-however-slightly-who-has-ever-published-in-book-length-form. It was going to be funny, and just petty enough that I wouldn’t come across as unlikeably bitter. I didn’t succeed. Maybe in the spring.
None of the buses I waited for this morning ever came. My travelling companion was the sort to express his frustration verbally: “Poo poo ca ca!” (This trait may well have been inherited from his mother, who saw fit en route to curse at a stranger, “This is a pedestrian crosswalk, a—hole!”) All of this extra anger somehow added an hour and half to our morning routine, cutting into my prime writing time, which I’m not even supposed to use for blogging, but there you go. If you want an explanation for this Mickey Mouse post, all you have to do is look outside my window at all of that white stuff obscuring the pavement.
I wanted of course to write something much more beautiful. Call it a treatise on thwarted ambition. But it got too long, too quickly. I was going to interweave a reflection on curling (why did my last team come to a broom-throwing demise? Why do I always throw take-out weight?) with an account of
everyone-my-age-who-I-know-however-slightly-who-has-ever-published-in-book-length-form. It was going to be funny, and just petty enough that I wouldn’t come across as unlikeably bitter. I didn’t succeed. Maybe in the spring.
posted by Anne C. | 10:55 am
6 Comments:
You're a curler! We used to curl until my knees gave out. Getting that weight down is tricky, for sure. I've been looking at pictures of your snow and not minding our rain so much.
And the broom throwing? Is there a way to control for that? :)
My dad was a curler. I have his hand-knit curling sweater in my closet.
Again with the $%&@# snow. I'm tired of it already and it's not even Christmas yet.
Curling! Have you heard that song by the Weakerthans? Steve's post on their cd had me rush out to get it and that curling song is thrilling me!
(By the way, you know those sentences... those-sentences-we-join-with-dashes-
to indicate that they are singular gestalt of something-or-other? Mine ran right off the page into the dark columns astride the parchment coloured backdrop. So I had to chop my used-to-be-connected sentence into several parts. Then I noticed your past has that too! Did Blogger always do that?)
I'm ignoring the layout problem, because for some reason it doesn't exist on Safari. You should all come read this from my house. It's so much better from here.
Does this invitation to read this at your place apply to those of us who do have Safari?
The problem occurs in Flock (my favourite browser).
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