AND I'M ALREADY BESIDE THE POINT

"But all this-the mysterious, the far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all-made no impression on the young man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination."
- jack london
"to build a fire"

I'm not a Jack London fan. Least ways I'm not a "Call of the Wild" fan. Bored me to tears. The quote is ripped off of someone who ripped it off. Aside from middle school curriculum the only other Jack London experience I've had was on the long road home from Savannah, GA where me and my life long friend Ian got drunk as monkeys and ran across rooftops like The Tick, and made beautiful women that look like Uma Thurman mad at us. On the road home we refused to acknowledge how late in the day it was and the many hours and miles we had still yet to endure. We talked lightly and listened to NPR. There was a story being read by some actor. It was a short story, by London, about a captain who believed luck always favored the side against him. In sunny clear skies and calm waters he muttered curses to all, and became hornery in hopes that "the forces" would take notice of how unhappy this weather makes him and further spite him with it. Conversely when storms closed in and threatened the very lives of all on board, even the captain, he would laugh and regail at such fine, fine weather; here to parch your thirst and give you reprieve from the sun's heat.
London summed up this character as a man with strong belief in his God, but was a devil worshipper at heart and did not realize it.
None of this matters. The only part of this blog that has anything to do with the mission of this blog is the quote up top. It made me think of me this winter past and how not too productive I've been. I'm still working on the same short story and still getting ready to begin the novel I set out to write. I did fine at the end of summer and through out fall about when I first landed here, but then winter set in and you would think that being isolated in one room would leave much time and focus for writing. Of course you would think that. It's easy to blame the weather, though. That's what made me think of London's story and Savannah. That's the only connection. In fact if I gave much regard to blogs and blogging at all I'd cut the whole fucking thing out. But I am a lazy man.
Having brought that long stretch of nothing betwixt Savannah and Atlanta up I have to say that that drive reminds me of the drive here, to Sioux Falls. Flat, slightly rolling. Nothing for as far as the eye can see, like being in the middle of the ocean. It's this vast calm sea of dirt, grass, and cornfield or wheatfield. And it is tranquill if you don't talk about home. And it's beautiful as long as you don't describe it, or as long as I don't describe it.
But...I'm not there yet in this blog o'mine. I haven't made it to the land locked port-town of Sioux Falls yet.
Looking at the first entry I can tell you I got it all wrong. I mis-spoke. I mistook these people or at least a few of them. But that's later too. That was after the winter when I shook off the devil's grip. I came to Sioux Falls, South Dakota September Seventh. On my birthday. I'm not even one years old here, yet. Don't listen to me.
But this is getting too long for one entry. Tune in next time for "the ragin' cajun, and the sorry southerner".