Intimidating volleyball sayings

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The tractor groaned, lurched, from somewhere came a whack! My brand new hydraulic hoses were stretched out and were about to snap. Easy way to spend, what, ‘bout fifty dollars for the pair, I’ll bet. I got to know some of them, one was assigned to help us in the office and somehow we communicated with winks and nods and grunts and jokes. (A few years later I was to have as an advisor and major professor Edgar Wolfe, who was an expert translator of Turkish poetry and fiction; but that was later.) The soldiers weren’t exactly in the snappiest uniforms I’d ever seen…they wore greenish- brown baggy rumpled shorts, shirts, and some kind of simple floppy caps, all the same color and the same cloth.

Then you can get out there and plough your heart out. I wouldn’t get out of the Navy for another four or five months, at least, and the trip to the Far East was three months long…so why not? After ten days’ steaming across the Atlantic, through the Straits of Gibraltar and all the way across the Mediterranean Sea to the port of Izmir, a wonderful old seaport and the birthplace of Homer, then known as Smyrna.

This is important if you consider writing your personal and family history important to your descendants. He read part or all of Howl, his masterpiece, he read his great poem about Walt Whitman, his mentor and the mentor for any American who loved poetry, as I did. By five o’clock, when the reading was supposed to end, the great ballroom, a huge room as the name implies, was filled, and still others came, some just to see what was going on. The reading and Allen’s exuberance and almost saintly sincerity kept us there until 6 o’clock, when he reluctantly stopped, when we reluctantly left. Of course Allen was chiding us about our hatred for the “bad Russians.” One wonders what he would have for us today were he around—would he only listen to V. Or would he remind us of the great Russian people and their almost infinite suffering? 14, 2016The longer I live the stranger my life seems to me. I’d make a one line note, maybe, or just a mental note—love those mental notes (but where are they now? I could write faster…I could write without thinking. And most of my mental life consists of little one-act fantasies. Popeye, the greatest American philosopher of the 20th Century, says, I am what I am. This drill was really in pretty good condition, it was just old. I had to fix one or two of the tubes through which the grain dropped into the soil, and a few other things, and I was field ready.

I wanted to be a printer, I thought then, and that was part of it. Now…writing, which has been and remains my real occupation since I was about 8, my pre-occupation and my occupation—in writing I have found a kind of meditation too, that is much more pleasant. I write and lose my mind and I am so focused on what I’m doing I don’t even know I’m doing it. I know I don't feel that way, but after 52 years of journaling and something like 12,000,000 words, I am having trouble thinking of more stories. I guess I am a grandfather, though I still think my own grandfather was The grandfather--I'm still a little kid, especially when somebody gives me a present. I went all the way through high school wearing just like all the other boys, a plain white t-shirt. I cry during movies, and now in my old age sometimes I'm crying during real life.

The writer's workshop for memoirists, autobiographers and family historians. I was paid 35 cents an hour and I made some pocket money of my own and it made me feel grown up and useful. It was boring beyond belief, but I had to do it, and I did it. -I’ve got a couple books on meditation and I’m doing a little. I'm not tired of writing, not at all, I'm more energized than ever, but I seem to have run out of stories. "It's from the t-shirt company, some place in North Carolina. "One of the kids." The typography was the same as THE GODFATHER, and so... When I was really, really was, a little kid, I couldn't wait to open my presents under the tree. I think they had just invented t-shirts a few years before. It's good to cry, just don't do it while crossing the street. But the other day I cried as I finished reading David Mc Cullough's history of 1776 and the early battles of the American Revolution.

Life Story was founded in 1991 as a how-to newsletter/magazine and also as an over-the-road workshoptravelling North America teaching and coaching new and longtime writers of all ages how to write about their lives and the lives of their ancestors. I passed the time by thinking, some, but at some point the thinking ran out and I passed the hours by feeling like I was part of the machine. I turned on the machine and it had a life of its own, the great flywheel turned and the two sides of the press parted, I placed the envelope tight in place against the gauge pins and removed my hand, the press closed, thunk, and I reached in and took out the now-printed envelope while the machine whirred on, opening, closing, opening, closing. Anyone who operates a machine knows what I’m talking about. When I first wake up in the morning I do some exercises in place in bed, June asleep next to me. In fact, trying to think of nothing is about the most boring thing in the world to me. Okay, I do that, and I’m making a little progress about that…so? Dip, slap, slop it on, smooth it out, dip, slap…all day long. Of course I actually haven't: I've just hit a block. I'd pinch them and poke them and by Christmas morning they'd be so ratty looking, and of course I had long since identified what the present was--a toy wagon, a book, a toy... I love old George Washington, and I'm so glad to live in a state named for him.

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