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Nov. 1st, 2002 08:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taratemimaMan, I am feeling weird, thinking writing songs and writing a psuedoautobiography.
Here's a start.
My name is Joe Freedman, and you probably don't know who I am. For fourteen years, I've lived at 5 Birch Circle, Leith, Massachusetts, but I feel like I never left. I could be in fucking LA and some guy with a gnome great-great-great-grandfather will tell me that I inspire him. Huh? I'm just some funny man who can play guitar. Almost as weird as the people who are surprised that I know Meg and Jacob. Know Jacob? Jacob Benjamin Zalmansky Bridges? The aging bard? Know Meg? Margaret Agnes Dunsmuir? The sword-wielding courtier-turned-general? Maybe I'll talk more about them, who are still named together even though they stopped dating each other. So I am giving away the plot of all this. Maybe, but I am new at this writing thing. When I took a vocational test at Brandeis, my ideal job was the arts, specifically musician. I barely hold day jobs, and I should be glad I don't need to. Yeah, I'm not famous, but I make enough for rent and cheap records. More than some people these days.
I get called names by the fae. Joseph the jester. Joseph the musician. Joseph the strange (and that is saying a lot). Joseph Beanstalk. Joseph the Man-child. Joseph son of Alexander son of Philip son of Ansel. If you talk to the humans, they only know my sister, major player in symbiote healing. I know her as the one who helped me with science homework. Maybe I will talk about Noa later.
I am close to forty, balding, plain. Some asshole told me that I looked like the canonical child molester. Maybe, but I am happy where I am, with a little apartment, a cat, a guitar and royalty checks from sitcoms and payments for less known jobs.
When I went into McLeans, they put down things they thought would have a bearing. I was born the first child, normal birth, no illnesses. Earliest memory was me walking in the yard, as my mother looked all cool and mysterious even while reading a magazine in a lounge chair. She was always white, thin, with a black bob and long dresses, fabric and design corresponding to season. My dad was either at his office or at the hospital weekdays.
Here's a start.
My name is Joe Freedman, and you probably don't know who I am. For fourteen years, I've lived at 5 Birch Circle, Leith, Massachusetts, but I feel like I never left. I could be in fucking LA and some guy with a gnome great-great-great-grandfather will tell me that I inspire him. Huh? I'm just some funny man who can play guitar. Almost as weird as the people who are surprised that I know Meg and Jacob. Know Jacob? Jacob Benjamin Zalmansky Bridges? The aging bard? Know Meg? Margaret Agnes Dunsmuir? The sword-wielding courtier-turned-general? Maybe I'll talk more about them, who are still named together even though they stopped dating each other. So I am giving away the plot of all this. Maybe, but I am new at this writing thing. When I took a vocational test at Brandeis, my ideal job was the arts, specifically musician. I barely hold day jobs, and I should be glad I don't need to. Yeah, I'm not famous, but I make enough for rent and cheap records. More than some people these days.
I get called names by the fae. Joseph the jester. Joseph the musician. Joseph the strange (and that is saying a lot). Joseph Beanstalk. Joseph the Man-child. Joseph son of Alexander son of Philip son of Ansel. If you talk to the humans, they only know my sister, major player in symbiote healing. I know her as the one who helped me with science homework. Maybe I will talk about Noa later.
I am close to forty, balding, plain. Some asshole told me that I looked like the canonical child molester. Maybe, but I am happy where I am, with a little apartment, a cat, a guitar and royalty checks from sitcoms and payments for less known jobs.
When I went into McLeans, they put down things they thought would have a bearing. I was born the first child, normal birth, no illnesses. Earliest memory was me walking in the yard, as my mother looked all cool and mysterious even while reading a magazine in a lounge chair. She was always white, thin, with a black bob and long dresses, fabric and design corresponding to season. My dad was either at his office or at the hospital weekdays.
