Upon reading , "The Hours"

Finally finishing Mrs. Dalloway by Mrs. Woolf led me to read The Hours, a book I was supposed to read for a class back when I used to have classes. I didn't remember why I put down The Hours (michael cunningham. he recieved a pulitzer for this novel......) It reminds me why I fear writing and often feel that he who calls himself a writer is truly Not a writer.
I rather detest his idea of writing his own personal interpretation of Mrs. Woolf's life, I dislike his idea to combine her writings with the lives of two other women who have been made to relate to Mrs. Dalloway. Now, I am no one to say anything critical concerning this book seeing how he won the Pulizter, (the Pulizter! dear god) adding to this thought that he is published and I am not. But to say in the least that we award people noble prizes for saying something that has all ready been said. How could I write? So much has all ready come forth in the way of brillance through written words. To be fair I will finish the book, but it amazes me to think that some "writer" has the gall to record another authors life in his own words and own pictures. Too much description, too much poetic imagery, and too much liberty taken in his idea.

It makes me not want to write. How did Virgina ever put pen to paper? She killed herself.

Reflections of What I Saw

I saw an elderly couple today (dare I call them old? but that is just not politically correct even though when I'm old you better damn well call me old).
Hand in Hand they walked. He had a hat which had that look my husband's hats do. And She, shorter than he, but not terribly so in so much that if they sat side by side she would find a sweet shelter under his arm smooshed into that space where his arm shoulder and side meet. (such heat which radiates from this spot)
I don't know where they were going and it is to each observer to decided upon their fate, but I suppose that if it were him and I we would be going no where, well no where in particular.
Just to walk.
To feel my bones creek and my knee joints rock back and forth with time.
To hold his hand, so large and masculine. Just as much as it does now, I know then it will enfold my small frail fingers with confidence and compassion.
I dont worry what we'll say, or what I will think of him then. Will I love? Will I fodder down into a placid pool of convenience? Will I see him? No ,See him?
To what it may be I will think what I will, for with time wisdom shall spring forth. It will then be up to me to say yes to wisdom or turn a cataract-filled eye away.
Death be not proud said Donne,
and I shall take heed now listening to wisdoms soft quiet wisper of
Life!
Love!

shhhhhh.....quiet now,
soft sleep shall take you home

Oxford Street

Oxford Street, London England

Swimming down Oxford street this sea of people swells and churns just as the natural ocean does. I sweep away with the crowd sudden -Halt! -as we get qued up, I break free and go running along down the pavement. A fake fur jacket with fake blonde hair bobbing up and down, Christmas consumers with thei rmulti-colored bags,
Purchase Purchase Purchase
Go! Go! Go!
For 'tis the season.
A mile down Oxford street a mile of people each with a new face and dress; how many masks does each face wear? An Asian fish paves the way and I follow in her wake. I break!I dash my own way 'round the easy flowing slow moving floatsam and jetsam in my way.
Sinking down into the tube station I leave the chaos and the ocean of Oxford street.