Damned pre-set, prejudicial internet! It’s bad enough anything you try to type on these days “corrects” your spelling – often to words you didn’t mean to type in. Yes, that’s bad enough (and I have a deep pity inside me for anyone working on a fantasy novel with made up names and places). But now I face, head on, the problem of my email. Oh, yes. Because I have a unicorn email. I know you think they don’t exist. It’s all just marketing bots now. But once upon a time, they did exist, and I still have mine: a dotcom email. Unfortunately, it’s truly become a unicorn; most people have their systems set to ignore dotcom messages because, well, all dotcom messages are spam, right? That’s what they’ve been for the past ten years, all spam and bullshit. No one’s really got a dotcom address anymore.
And while my messages don’t get returned, they also don’t get answered. Automatically dumped into the trash folder. So I have to go out and use some bullshit online free email because no one believes a dotcom message is really me. But it is really me. And fucking around with other emails is a pain in my ass. More, I don’t care to have every goddamn fucking bullshit “free” system on the internet – which is only “free” so they can garner your information and SELL IT ON TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER – know every damned detail about me.
Why did this happen? Greed. Personal and corporate greed.
Humans are, in so many cases, such a worthless race.
So don’t look at me funny when I try to explain my numerous nom de plumes. Half of it is the internet’s fault. I can’t use this name or that name or goddess forbid, my real name, because someone’s already using it. So make something up.
Guess I have to give myself a pat on my back for being smart enough to start a new email out there just for my writing. No one rejects a ‘@gmail.com’ or other mail system message. Nope. There may be millions of spammers out there using those systems, but no one will automatically block those messages.
After all, it’s not like they’re dotcoms.
However, I’m pretty sure my message about volunteering where I have my lessons has gone astray. Which means I have to begin again; pick one of those blow off emails I don’t really check and send it out one more time. Then remember to check said blow off email because no, I’m not hooking it up with my real email – you don’t get that info. Just like you don’t get my phone and my email hooked up. Oh, once in a while I think it would be cool to be set up like that, but more often than not I’m thankful. Thankful I’m not that connected, thankful I’m not bothered by the two hundred groups on Facebook I’ve somehow become part of and can’t leave, thankful I don’t hear my phone bleep with every fucking stupid notification or post of the snack you were having or note about how the bathroom at the concert is so dirty you just can’t believe it.
Fucking hell! And people tell ME to get a life!
… No, I have not been to the gym this weekend and yes, I’m wishing this morning that I’d braved the snow and possible ice and just walked over there yesterday to burn off this whatever it is. I didn’t, though. Chose to stay in and super clean a few areas – which led to my hands being burnt out by the end of the day, with me popping my horse-sized paracetamol pills and trying not to let my brother know how much pain I was in. It’s a real joy to sit here at my clean computer desk, with my clean keyboard and clean mouse pad, but it cost me (as did the clean sinks, the shining bathroom, and the scrubbed up door handles and light switches throughout the house).
Fish, Lizard, Chicken. It’s the working title of my new script, and it’s beginning to consume me. I can’t get the mantra of it out of my head. Can’t stop seeing scenes acted out. Right now it’s more sound and color than dialogue and action – which might make it all the more distracting as I try to focus in on what’s really happening in my imagination. Doing my best to prevent it from boiling over. Taking the cover off once in a while to let the steam escape. It’s not easy; I’m a little unstuck in time and can’t conceive of when the next holiday from my language lessons occurs.
Ach! And another thing that won’t leave me alone: Do you speak perfect English? I was asked that on Friday by my language teacher when I said I’d volunteered to teach English. What could I say? No. No, I don’t. I speak Midwestern American English, which is far from perfect. I do, however, know the difference between ‘proper’ English grammar and ‘improper’ English grammar – though I can also give you long argument that the English language is actually divided into several subsets; Southern English grammar is not the same as Midwestern English grammar, and both of those differ dramatically from British English grammar or Irish English grammar. I’m sure the same could be said of Australian or New Zealand English grammar, tho I’m not that familiar with them. Unfortunately, the question was asked of me in Dutch and I was expected to reply in Dutch – so she got the ‘no, I don’t’ but not the rest.
No matter. If the place I take lessons at doesn’t want my services as an English instructor, I’ve got another ace in the hole. My brother’s ex-sensei is hot to trot to have me teach English in the building he works in. I imagine I’ll be in front of a class before the year is over. Now that I’ve embraced the idea, I find myself very invested in it. Helping people to express themselves…that’s always been it for me. Doesn’t matter if it’s music or writing, poetry or teaching, offering a platform to perform or a chance to record your own material. I want to know what’s under the make-up and clothes, the posturing and chatter.
Show me who you really are.