I’m taking a break from my morning writing routine to post my first blog on semantikon.  A break wasn’t so much warranted as it was necessary; even for a chunky fella like myself, it’s good to get up out of the chair. Even if it’s only to walk upstairs and sit down in another chair, at another key board. I’ll get out later.. maybe take a walk to the park that’s right down the road and try to scare the ducks. 

I’m at home writing because my job has come to end. When I’m not writing or trying to scare water fowl, I teach college writing… which, for many writers, is as antithetical to writing as a Mensa membership would be for George W. Bush.  But that’s how I earn bread and beer money most of the time. Since I wasn’t offered any summer classes, I am spending my time writing, looking for a job, and occupying a stool at the sports bar down the street.  Yes, it’s a little further walk than the park, but the pay off is significantly better. I mean, I like nature and all, but after all, it’s technically NOT nature when it’s a man made park… right? When I think of nature, I think of those parts of the world that we haven’t managed to screw up yet.  This makes the area that actually IS nature fairly limited. But that’s the nature of langauge I guess… trying to be as specific as possible only to find that the word isn’t quite correct.

It’s true. I’m almost always dissatisifed with my writing. The language doesn’t always communicate what I want it to communicate; the words don’t always do what I hope they will do. I suppose that’s part of the inclination to keep writing… and part of me hopes (in that respect) that I never find the right words. Otherwise, how else would I spend my days? At least writing serves one very important function: it allows me to justify my lack of worldy career ambitions.

Even when I’m teaching, I’m not keeping an eye on upward mobility. I’ve worked with people who do… I call them administrative weasels… and these people, while not freaks of nature, are, I think, a product of nature run amok. I have trouble even calling them people, and weasel, while a pleasant metaphor, still falls short. I don’t want to call them aliens, either… just in case those little green men cutting geometric designs in corn fields are actually friendly.  

I suspect that part of the reason I’m not upwardly mobile is because I would end up being a the kind of critter (neither person nor animal… think cockroach.. something you can squish and not have to worry if it’ll mess up your tires) I despise. At least, that’s what I tell myself. That and the fact that a more affluent job would suck energy I need for writing. And so, I’m back to those words that are never quite specific enough.

You’d think with over 500,000 words (not including names and other random proper nouns) I could find something. But then I have to consider that the average adult only uses about 10,000 words. (Sometimes I think this estimate is on the generous side.) That leaves 490,000 words that most people don’t know, don’t care to know, and wouldn’t look up simply because it takes time to dig out a dictionary… or at the very least visit dictionary.com.  Besides, as much as I like to think I have a respectable vocabulary, it’s nowhere near the six digit range. And I hate to have to spend the time to stop writing and look up a word in the dicitonary. Come to think of it, I don’t think I even own a dictionary anymore. Or a Thesarus. I think I have a book of crossword puzzles somewhere….

The only other thing I’ve done since school ended was get a hair cut. I get around to it once every 4 or 5 months or until my wife mistakes me for a sheepdog. The good news — if you can call it that — is that because my hairline is gradually receeding as my brain gets bigger, it takes a little longer for her to confuse me with the afore mentioned canine. When I get it cut, I have it cut short… mostly so I won’t have to mess with it. I may get it cut again before the next school year begins. Or I may not. There’s an outside chance I won’t be teaching next year, so anything’s possible.

On the other hand, wearing my hair shorter is also more of a comfort consideration — those of you not familiar with Phoenix in the summer time, turn your oven on and stick your head in. No suicides, now. Just enough to get that rush of unrelenting and humid free heat.  I also really like the woman who cuts my hair… mostly because she used to be my bartender.  Which reminds me: I may not have all the words to say what I mean, but this rule is pretty clear. Never, ever piss off the people who pour drinks or who know how to mangle your head with a sharp object.  That’s up there with Don’t Feed the Bears and Give a Hoot. Don’t Pollute.  And, no, I haven’t been the victim of a vindictive barkeep or a disturbed Edward Scissorhands imitator… but I don’t feed bears either, and I try not to pollute.

I like my hair cut. It makes the summer more comfortable.  It just feels good. And accept for the wonder of my incredible shrinking funds, I like that I spend my morning writing, only to take a break and write some more. It doesn’t pay… but damn, it feels good.

But, for some reason, it does make it more difficult to scare the ducks.

Tags: blah blah blah, guest editor, hair cut, mick parsons, nature, summer, words, writing

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