Today I received a letter in the mail from my mother. She wrote:

Thought you'd get a kick out of this! I found it while cleaning out a drawer - doing things your own way even then!

Love!
Mom

Enclosed also was a faded sheet of notebook paper dated "1-7-83". There was a 3-D box at the top with "#12" scrawled in it. The title of the paper was "What's at the End of the Rainbow?" And someone, presumably a teacher, had scrawled in red ink the following: "Rewrite. Please do not write poems."

The poem itself is not so good, but what do you expect from a 12-year old? It kind of reminds me of Tammy's Kid Stories, actually. I think, however, if she's willing to put her kid writing up, so should I, so here we go.

What's at the End of the Rainbow?

One day I took a ride
To see what people really hide
At the end of the rainbow.
I followed the pretty, bright, curved lines
To me it really took no time
To find the end of the rainbow.
As I reached near the end
The car stopped, unusually quite dead
How was I going to get to the end of the rainbow?
I decided to walk because it was easier
But I soon felt sick and queasy and queasier
So I stopped on my way to the end of the rainbow.
I started again, and soon I got there
I knew that this sight was extremely rare
The sight of the end of the rainbow.
Little poppies and other flowers grew there
And bunnie rabbits hopped high in the sweet-smelling air
The beautiful land at the end of the rainbow.
The clouds drifted low so you could take a ride
And I saw in the corner beautiful and wide
The gorgeous end of the rainbow.

Now that I've typed it I have to say, wasn't that an optimistic little piece? I mean, I was like, what?, in seventh grade? I realized that there was some struggle to get to where I wanted to go, but once I got there, there would be some cool shit waiting for me. And I knew that it was special. It also reminded me that I always used to fantasize on sunny days when the sky was full of clouds about what it would be like to be able to sit on those clouds. I used to think about that a lot.

Also: fuck that teacher, the one who told me to rewrite it. Who the hell tells a kid not to write poetry? They should be happy that a kid wanted to express themself at all. In that red ink, that evil red ink...When I have children, I'm going to encourage them to create whatever they want to in whatever fashion they choose. Fascist teacher pigs.

Today I left work at 5:15 to go have drinks with Will. He works just a few blocks away from me now, so he keeps stopping by the office for smoke breaks and such. Today he lured me away early to Siberia, so we could sit and drink and gab and gossip.

It's been a rough week for me, but at the same time it's been very exciting. I've gotten an excellent response to the site, I've finally formed some bonds with co-workers, and I got a chance to look at some of the finished versions of upcoming video for the site and they look great. A well-read, though admittedly not particularly intellectual, periodical is interested in reviewing the site. I think by the time this project is complete there will be a fairly large and hopefully enthusiastic audience. This thrills me.

And so I said to Will, "What will I do after this? What if I never find another project like this? These are few and far between on the web. What will I think about when I don't have this to think about anymore?"

And he said, "What you should really do is write a book."

(As much as Will drives me up the wall, he is one of the only people in my life who tells me to do that. For that I am grateful.)

But here I am, right, at the end of the rainbow. I had all these stops and starts and it was difficult. I've got two and a half months left, and it's all going to be fairly fun from here, even if there is still a lot more work to do. But I don't know how to enjoy myself. I was thinking when I was a kid that there was somewhere special I needed to go. Tonight I feel like it doesn't even matter if you get there.

That's no good, right?

Oh dear god, I hate being existential at 1 AM. No good can possibly come of it.

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