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In the fiction of the space between
The lines on the page and memories
Write it down but it doesn't mean
We're not just telling stories

Trouble is, I haven't got any stories anymore. I've got concepts. Details. I haven't got any conflicts to work with. We must work on this.
Note to self: 

Consider writing a piece (memoir?) centering around Eleanor. When in Florida, get the diaries. Read them ASAP.

Talk to your mother about Eleanor, her husband (Russell), shopping trips, stories, etc . . .

Start trying to remember things as well (To the moon and back, sci fi, late night horror, the day the earth stood still, George, Heather, William, Brady, band, money, food, shopping, talking through the door, dealing with her when mom and dad wanted to go to bed, holidays, The Happy Prince, gays and lesbians, Mark and Mindy, 99.9 KISS FM, PBS News "those nice students", the doves, the cat (Sarah), the dog who was I think a German Shepherd, letters, Rosicrucianism, spirtualism, mysticism, occultism, bible/Godliness, . . . )

Eleanor Mary Hammill Dunaja - July 6, 1942 - June 18, 1998 (56)

Zodiac Sign - Cancer

The trailer . . . the "computers", ameture radio, (Pump up the Volume), Christian Slater, Rosicrucian.

See what I can come up with. There is a book in this somewhere. What better place to begin?

She always seemed so young and pretty to me . . . hard to believe she was 56. She was exotic looking as well.

Time seemed to be punctuated by visits from Eleanor . . .
Why Don't You Do A Few Laps Around The House?

I was reminiscing about some things today that I had not thought about in years. Namely, this cousing that I had growing up who must have been in his forties. I think that he was my dad's brother's son, or Uncle Bob's son. Same thing really. I have tried all day to remember his name, and I think that it may have been Jerry, the same as my uncle. I am pretty sure that this cousin is dead now having drank himself to death, although I cannot be certain.

Anyway, this cousin was married to a woman of Asian descent. Maybe she was Vietnamese, I honestly don't remember mcuh about her other than I was not too fond of her. I met these people precious few times in my life but I remember that when they were coming for a visit, for some unknown reason we had to have catfish, hushpuppies, and coleslaw for dinner. As a child, I was not terribly fond of this meal, and although I do get a hankering every once in a while in my adulthood, I cannot say I am terribly fond of it even now. I suppose the idea was that we were highlighting the most famous local dish or something being as Crescent City, Florida is the home of the annual Catfish Festival.

The first time I remember them coming for a visit I cannot have been more than about 3 or 4 years old. I know this because I distinctly remember this event happening in "the red house", the converted goat barn that was my home until some time around kindergarten. I remember my mother and the Asian lady in the tiny kitchen of this shack making coleslaw. My mother was explaining that she would not put sugar in coleslaw because that was not the way it should be, but that's how restaurants make it. Or something. My dad and Jerry were sitting in the living room which also served as my bedroom while I was sitting on a bar stool at the counter which also served as the dining room table. Looking back on this, I wonder where everyone sat to eat, seeing as there were only three or four barstools. Maybe they didn't feed me or something. Knowing my parent's sensiblilities, I doubt they would have let me eat on the couch or on the floor.

Regarding this house, as I said, it was a converted goat barn. That is to say that before my family took up residence there it had been the homestead of a heard of goats. Literally. You see, many years prior, in the 70s I would imagine, my father had had a trailer on the property along with some livestock, including these goats. While in the process of installing air conditioners on the roof of a new low income high rise in Palatka (which to my eternal sadness is no longer standing) he suffered a heart attack and had to be hospitalized. While in the hospital, his "wife", a woman named Del, had his trailer reposessed by the trailer company. Therefore, upon his return from the hospital, he found that there was nowhere for him to stay. So, he set to work, and in what I understand was short time, he cleaned out the shit from a pole barn and made it into a house. I know for a fact that the floor was patched together from various smaller pieces of wood, due to the fact that the strange green carpet is now old and pulling up and you can see where the pieces of floor were pieced together.

This was a simple house for a man of simple needs. It consisted of a front door which led into a very small living room. This was also my bedroom, the dining room, and the office for my father's service call business. There was a large couch, a huge office desk, my double bed, a standup freezer with the small television on top, and next to that was the kitchen counter, which functioned very much like a bar. On the other side of the bar was the prep counter, the sink, the stove, a suspended convection oven, and the cabinets. When one walked in the front door, if one took an immediate left, there was a small hall that contained the washer and dryer, as well as another freezer. Directly across from the laundry room was a small bathroom, which despite it's small window, always seemed to be the brightest room in the house. Then, on the opposite end of the house from the living room was the bedroom where my father slept. This contained a huge shelving unit that held part of all kinds. In front of this was  queen sized bed. There was also a record player and a closet, both of which were of great intrigue to me as a child. Some of my earliest memories are of playing in this bedroom, listening to the albums my sister left behind when she moved out (the day I was born) of Alabama and Michael Jackson. I loved Michael Jackson before I knew he was cool, but as a child, I was convinced that he was a girl. That was of no matter though. I loved looking at the Thriller album cover while listening to the record because whoever that pretty lady was, she was hanging out with a tiger, and that was neat.

Anyway, back to this cousin of mine. I don't remember much about him as I said, mainly that I thought he looked a great deal like Tom Brokow. I always liked Tom Brokow and from an early age I was a fan of NBC Nightly News. I was very concerned about the Gulf War, especially since I was told that another cousin, Steven, whom I had never met was serving over there, jumping out of planes. I liked cousin Jerry because he looked like Tom Brokow. I did not, however, like his wife.



Virginia woke with a start. She never slept well, her nights were plagued with nightmares. She had been dreaming about her ex-boyfriend, Erik. They had been together for 5 years before they broke up last May. Since she was in the 6th Grade. Since the night her dad died. She was 12 and he was 16 when they started dating. She was 14 when they started having sex, and 17 when they broke up. Now, it was fall of her senior year, she was 18, and things had never been better and they had never been worse.

For the first time since she was 12, she was truly free to live her own life. She could go where she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whomever she wanted, and she didn’t have to answer to Erik. She was free. She was free to be haunted by the ghost of Erik . . .

Every night, it seemed, she was visited by him. It wasn’t really him, more so it was the ghost of who he had been when they first met. The person in her dreams was a kind, gentle, shy boy with high aspirations, manners, goals, and love for her. The Erik that she hadn’t seen in 6 months was none of these. He was a self centered, controlling, bastard who fancied himself an invincible badass. That Erik was a degenerate, and the Erik of her dreams was long dead. Where things had gone wrong, she didn’t know. All she knew was this was supposed to be the happiest time of her life, and she was barely living.

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I have a friend in ROTC here at college who needs to shave 8 minutes off of her run time in the next 30 or so days. How does one do this? Any suggestions?
I also resent his friends!!!!

I am a mean mean mean bitch!

What is wrong with me?
  • Run a 5k I walked one in March
  • Do cardio everyday Not so much, yet.
  • Stop swearing as much Not so much either . . .
  • Remove GD from my common vernacular Haven't we been over this?
  • Find a church that I like Unitarian Universalist!!!
  • Go to church I would have gone if I didn't have to work every Sunday . . .
  • Write More Sort of. Not as much as I wanted.
  • Go to school As I write this I am preparing for my spring finals at UWF!
  • Do Yoga Not so much . . .
  • Meditate Yeah right . . .
  • READ!!!! This is really sad, not doing much of that either . . .
  • Stop biting my nails Nope.
  • BE MYSELF!!! I think that this is getting better
  • Stop caring what other people think of me Eh . . .
  • Go outside more Hahaha!
  • CLEAN MY ROOM This is done and done. My dorm is tres clean.
  • Move out Did it! Living at UWF! (But going home Friday for 3 weeks . . .)
  • GET A JOB Caregiver at TLC Caregivers, ahem and an RA next year. BAM!
  • Get a Fish His name is SPARTICUS.
  • Maybe some Hermit crabs Not yet. Maybe before I go to Raleigh this summer.
  • Communicate better with my mom I think that this is getting better. We will see about that when I go home.
  • Break my addiction to approval Eh . . .
  • Do what I need to do for me Actually, yes. For the most part. I sleep alot now.
  • Be selfish I think that this is coming too. I say "no" more often I feel. It's in progress.
Haven't been here in a while. What's going on with me? I didn't get the job in St. Augustine. I am now cleaning house for a lady in Bostwick. That's not bad. $12.50 an hour, you know.

I'm not doing as much writing as I would like, but I will be participating in Nanowrimo in 9 days. I will hopefully be moving to Pensacola in January.

More later.
I am going to try and get a job tomorrow.  It's at the ESE school in St. Augustine. $11/hr or more. Not so bad, and getting my foot in the door. I figure, if I can make it at the ESE school, I can do anything. I really hope that this works out. If it doesn't, then I am going to go and become recertified to be a substitute teacher and keep looking for a job. I got a speeding ticket today, so to say the least, I am in a dire situation.

In other news, I went to church today. I think that I have officially decided that I do not want to be a Methodist. I'm not "digging the scene". I think that I would really like to be Episcopal. Of course, all things beautiful can be so easily soiled. Tomorrow begins the Couch-5k, and here it is Midnight and I have such a busy day planned. Gah. &hearts
Oh my God. I am feeling like a complete and utter failure. I am watching this thing on Dateline about a first year teacher. She was only 21 years old, teaching in a 99% black school.

I am a failure. I am 20 and not ever near being done with school. It's scary. Am I going to be able to be the teacher that I want to be? Are my expectations too high? Will I be able to do my students justice? Oh My God.

This is fucking up my world. I want to cry. I want to be done. I want to give it a try at least. And my mom went off on this thing about how she and my sister know how to pick shit with the chickens and how they aren't all that educated, blah! blah! blah!

She was the one who enstilled in me the desire to be successful and to get an education, and now, I'll be damned if she isn't sabotaging it. Why? WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY???????

I want to be done and do this. It looks so hard, what this woman was doing looks so hard, but that's what I want to do. Why is this so hard?
Pushing thru the market square, so many mothers sighing
News had just come over, we had five years left to cry in
News guy wept and told us, earth was really dying
Cried so much his face was wet, then I knew he was not lying
I heard telephones, opera house, favourite melodies
I saw boys, toys electric irons and t.v.s
My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare
I had to cram so many things to store everything in there
And all the fat-skinny people, and all the tall-short people
And all the nobody people, and all the somebody people
I never thought Id need so many people

A girl my age went off her head, hit some tiny children
If the black hadnt a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them
A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheels of a cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest, and a queer threw up at the sight of that

I think I saw you in an ice-cream parlour, drinking milk shakes cold and long
Smiling and waving and looking so fine, dont think
You knew you were in this song
And it was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor
And I thought of ma and I wanted to get back there
Your face, your race, the way that you talk
I kiss you, youre beautiful, I want you to walk

Weve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Five years, what a surprise
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Weve got five years, what a surprise
Five years, stuck on my eyes
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Weve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Five years, what a surprise
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Weve got five years, what a surprise
Weve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Weve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, thats all weve got
Five years
Five years
Five years
Five years