Hey, all. Well, I got…

Hey, all. Well, I got some possibly bad news -- that the tax info I got over the phone from the IRS may not be entirely accurate re: deducting tuitition. I just asked on misc.taxes.moderated -- a *very* useful newsgroup -- we'll see what they say. Nice people there.

Otherwise, life is good. Haven't had time to cook since this weekend (cooked a *lot* this weekend) -- which is a bit frustrating. May cook tonight -- may also go dancing. Trying to schedule it now -- we'll see what happens.

I sorta volunteered again. I should have my head examined. But it looks like in a while, misc.writing may split up a bit, and if so, they'll need some help. Again, wait and see sort of thing.

I have so many things 'in progress' right now -- it's frustrating. I'm very much a task-oriented person, and I like finishing tasks -- checking them off and feeling satisfied when they're done. This sort of vagueness -- just irritating. A little of it's my own fault, but a lot of it is being dependent on others. Why doesn't everyone check their e-mail hourly like I do, huh? :-)

As if I respond that promptly. :-)

Still, life is going moderately well. Had a late start to my day -- my roommate's parents are visiting and they took us out to brunch, which was very nice of them. But I promised the Sizzle people that I'd get them that story today, and I'm just not sure it'll get done. May have to defer to tomorrow, but NO LATER. If I haven't finished it by tomorrow, you must all yell at me. Understood? :-)

Okay, back to work. Have a good day, everyone.

2:30 -- poem for class

BURDEN TOO LONG CARRIED

It is never cold here, I remember. Ache rests
in these bones whispering changes too subtle
for youth. Rest, they tell me. Enough.

A sunny room in the west tower; weaving
to occupy my hands and the chatter of
girls to numb my careworn mind.

I remember when my mother sent me to him.
Too-dark skin and a broad flat nose,
young as these girls and full of silliness.

He beat it from me quickly. Silent --
I watched the others take my place,
a procession I was not allowed to mind.

My skin has dried and wrinkled in his house,
stretching thin as memory over fragile,
twice-broken bones and hope like dust.

And now the man is dead. And it would be
so easy. To rest among girls not afraid
of chattering and say that I have done enough.

It would be so easy.

*****
M.A. Mohanraj
February 5, 1997

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