I've developed a bad habit of playing into a 'hick' stereotype--apparently some city people think that us country kids start out every sentence we say with "Shit yo...blah blah blah...boo yeah". So I've been doing that a lot lately. Shit yo, it's fucking hot out, boo yeah.

As a measure of how hot it was here today, my socks at work stayed up of their own volition today. I did not have to pull them up once. Because that's how much I was sweating. Wool is not kind. Damn the French and their seventeenth century mini-Ice Age.

I had some of the coolest news in a long time today. The Huronia Players' theatre groups' Studio company will be performing the play that I wrote for my creative writing class this year in August. I am pumped. Certain people have been encouraging me to take an active role in the production, either by directing or acting, but I feel content to merely be a bystander. I may, perhaps, be forfeiting a fraction of my artistic vision by doing so, but I'm intrigued to see what perspective someone else's vision could bring to it.

I'm making a chair at work. It's coming along nicely, if a little slowly. I've come to enjoy working with my hands a lot. It's a different sensation than writing. The things I write are a labour of love (recently more labour than love) but there is a certain deep satisfaction, profound pleasure that I find in being able to hold something up and tell someone that it was shaped by my fingers--that I created something that exists, not just in the intangible realm that my words inhabit, but in the real world, the physical world. That I have left a mark on a world that's never cared a damn for me.

I dream that someday I will be able to achieve that same permanence with my writing...that I can bring my words into the physical world in a way that will make people care.

A just cause, perhaps?

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