expect.

I have come to believe in knowing what you love. What I mean is that each of us knows, deep down, the things that bring us happiness. These are things we read or eat or talk about or do. And we know them.

We are here and alive now, are we not?

I have just finished reading An Everlasting Meal by Tamar Adler and it is one of the most beautiful books I've read in awhile. It's the kind of beautiful that makes your heart feel a little swollen, a little fuller. The kind that makes you think I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive. It is full of the simplest pleasures and the reality we find deep inside our survival, in the food we grow, prepare, and put inside our bodies. But the pleasure runs beyond survival, and so it is precious.

You know the things that make you happy, I think. You know the things that you love. You know the moments when you're alive. It has taken me some poverty and heartbreak and hard work to realize that I know these things too. This might be very silly advice for me to give, but there it is: take, live, do these things now. Do them now. Find the things, especially the small and simple things, and fill your life up with them.

I'm reading The Gift right now, by Lewis Hyde, and he has a thoughtful section devoted to gift economies and the ways that scarcity and market systems breed constant, ever-growing discontent. There's an old tradition of deep satisfaction and happiness to be found among people who live with very little and who have a generous spirit.

My point is only that life has a way of getting very full of things that don't mean much. Some of it is necessary. Jobs to pay the rent and obligations to be met. But it's worthwhile to combat some of the empty things with the things that make you happy.

It's worth remembering.

It's also worth remembering that you will only be capable of what you expect of yourself, so expect a great deal. I am saying this to myself quite a bit lately. I expect something big will come of it.

quite right.

I know, it's been awhile. Actually, it's been awhile for awhile. I would like to apologize, but I would also like to say that it's been necessary, or at least I think so. Things here were feeling stale to me. I've grown tired of saying the same thing same thing same thing. It's started feeling a bit whiny, at least in my own ears.

So for these two weeks, I have been running my brain over and over the whole lot and searching for something - a new direction, a new sense of purpose, a new "why" as in why I am writing here and why you might be reading here. No matter the gaps and the absences, I came here as a way to hold myself accountable. And for the most part, it has worked. It would be quite a shame to give up now. I believe, somewhere in me, that I have reached the giving-up-moment, that is the moment when everyone wants to quit. And I believe that the difference between success and failure is getting through this moment and to the other side.

I still don't know quite where to take things, but can I ask you to stick it out?

I have been writing this post for days because I don't know what to say. I don't think anything has resolved itself in my head. I think I might be a fool sometimes for hoping to resolve my thoughts and my purpose and myself. In fact, that might be the thing that paralyzes me most.

Have you ever had a big, stretching, yawning weekend with nothing to do but make a pot of soup and write and somehow all you did was make the pot of soup and didn't write, not one single word? I have. But enough of that.

think about things.

Last week, I heard John D'Agata and Jim Fingal read from their book, The Lifespan of a Fact. I have been thinking ever since of what I could say about it or even how I felt. The honest truth is that it's a little difficult for me to separate my intellectual thoughts from my starstruck awe. I know it might be just me, but John D'Agata is a major literary celebrity in my life. As I've mentioned before, his collection The Next American Essay single-handedly turned me on to writing that I didn't only love, but writing I wanted to create. Which I think would be the moment I became a writer.

At any rate, the reading was entertaining and thought-provoking, but not as whipped up as I'd hoped. John D'Agata mock-rolled his eyes every time Fingal read one of his sections pointing out D'Agata's accuracy errors. Or maybe it was for real. There was a major element of performance in the reading, which I think must also be read into the book. It is an exaggeration for the sake of a point.

What has stuck with me, however, is a moment towards the end of the Q&A that followed the reading. I can't for the life of me remember what the question was, but I do remember D'Agata's intensely thoughtful answer as he explained what he believed the essay to be. The largeness of it, in my opinion, defies any simple understanding. Or simple explanation.

I think too hard about things. Life things. Philosophy things. Science things. Religion things. Decision things. I carve out a lot of thinking time for myself so that I can just sit and think about all these things. I take myself a bit too seriously sometimes, but I think we all do. Things that have to do with why and things that have to do with rules aren't always worth thinking about. Sometimes thinking about those things only screws you up. Do I make sense? I hope not. That is, after all, the point of philosophizing: confuse everyone and act smart. Isn't it?

plugging in.

This night, I have cleaned the kitchen, done two loads of laundry, made a large pot of curry split pea soup, killed time looking at apartment listings, and eaten an embarrassing dinner of crackers, spreadable cheese and pickles. But I have managed to fight through anyway and get down to work. Other things seem more important. Suddenly I suspect I should make a loaf of bread. I feel the need to clean out my closet.

You might be tired of hearing about this procrastinating and putting off and distracting myself. Trust me, you're not as sick of it as I am. But I mention it only to give proof that I'm continuing to slog through it and make progress in the way that I do.

There are many reasons I know I should write. One is this: sometimes I read a book, a page, even a sentence, and while I'm thinking of its beauty and appreciating it and reveling in it, I'm also thinking: I wish I had written that. So I keep on taking things in, out in the creative world, and these things mash around my head and I hope for the best. I hope that my own style will come out of it. You keep taking it in and taking it in and taking it in and something will come out. That's physics, I think. Action and reaction.

I read a chapter of a book today. I sat very still and got tingly feelings in my fingers. Shallow breath and eyes that blurred around the rims from intense focus, from lack of blinking. These things happened. I got the restless-leg-syndrome feeling in my arms and clenched my fists over and over to soothe it. This is what my creative impulse feels like. It is the highest high I know. Seeing something brilliant and wanting to make something else while wishing you had made this awesome thing you're looking at now. It is this single moment when I forget fear, inhibition, failure, rejection, propriety, even life itself. The world is suddenly so big, so full of things for me to see and write and tell and I realize I am staring at this screen with my eyes jacked wide open like it's all unfolding before me now. I'll open them wide enough to take it all in.

the rumpus: readers report.

A short piece I wrote was selected in the latest Readers Report at The Rumpus. Scroll down to the fifth selection to read it. Cool!

http://therumpus.net/2012/04/readers-report-back-from-friends-with-benefits/