An old experiment…

I was looking over some old notebooks and I came across an old writing exercise I did. The goal was to write two pages that detailed the last ten years of my life using only three word sentences.  It was a fun exercise, kinda hard but pretty helpful to get some juices flowing, anyway:

I read books. I’m too short. I grew up. I grew out. I grew wide. I learned stuff. I ate stuff. Too much stuff. I moved often. I did write. I didn’t write. I didn’t understand. I lied too. I failed me. I won me. I was me. I didn’t apologize. I gave back. Not enough back. I love dogs. I burned out. Too early, though. I climbed mountains. An extinct volcano. I spelled correctly. I wrote tests. I wrote papers. I wrote words. Lots of words. So many words. I used pens. Thousands of pens. Black ink pens. Always black ink. Much more serious. Blue looks silly.

I lost weight. I gained weight. I lost weight. I gained weight. I tried running. And tried again. And tried again. Not a joke. What a joke. I had sex. Lots of it. I loved it. I doubted myself. I boosted myself. I leaned French. I forgot French. I loved poetry. Tried living it. Realized I’m ridiculous. Sat out games. Sat out life. Only for awhile.

Bought new notebooks. It’s too hot. Sang a lot. Not anymore though.  Have a love. Have a dog. Have a future? I think so. Had bad relationships. Drank too much. Loved high school. Hated high school. I over achieved. I under achieved. It’s one word? Is this cheating?

Decided to run. Decided to move. Decided to study. Half the time. Didn’t swim enough. Walked over Montreal. Night after night. Street after street. Learned about myself. About my feet. Worked too hard. Not hard enough. Flip flopped obviously. Voted three times. Babysat on occasion. Argued a lot. Debated a ton. Hated George Bush.

Bought new computer. Trying new life. Walked the dog. Blew my nose. Drank delicious wine. Complained days away. Woke up everyday. Not too shabby.

Lines in a notebook.

“Cormac McCarthy says his perfect day is sitting in a room with a blank sheet of paper. I wish. I do know that I like a big empty table – like the ones in the library at McGill or the ones in interrogation rooms in cop shows. That kind of pressed composite wood top. Heavy as all get out. Metal legs that I can kick in frustation, just hard enough to hurt my toes.”

-November-ish, 2009

Lines in a notebook

I had too much coffee and I drank it too fast. I can barely read and I think I’m having heart palpitations. Here I was, thinking I could be all productive and I end up paranoid, wishing I could get home and hide in the basement under the covers until my heartbeat slows down. Plus, I’ve got the sweats. Jesus Christ, they’re playing a frantic Sam Roberts’ song and I can’t even focus my eyes.

Why do people write in cafes?