I've been accused of going on strike. That hasn't happened since I was 16 and a member of Retail Clerks International, when I learned what a scab is. For me, striking was a vacation. I wanted my wages to buy doughnuts and records. I didn't need them to pay rent and buy groceries. I showed up now and then to carry a placard, walk back and forth along the sidewalk, and feel sorry for the older guys whose spouses and babies depended on them for food.
No, I've been the opposite of on strike. After years of "working" part-time and filling the rest of my time with constructive play, this year has found me clocking 40-hour+ weeks and struggling to play. I've neglected my blog partly because it seems to get as many visitors when I don't post as when I do. Who among you wants to read about Dodd-Frank and banking stuff anyway?
"I do," says Virginia.
Don't listen to her. She's green because I have been writing some other things, not about her, things I'm not about to put on this blog.
"Poems," she says.
Yeh, them too. If I put them here, others might not want to publish them. Not that anyone's pounding on my door.
Something else, too. Maybe she'll let me finish it some day.
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago