oh, the times.

Don't think about it. Don't think about how little time you may have, or how much. Stop measuring it out, line by line, step by step, task by task, soon year by year.

I haven't written in a long time.

It seems like there aren't enough minutes in the day, but of course it isn't true. There were minutes yesterday. There are minutes today. There will even be some tomorrow.

I will be brief, to prove this to myself - it doesn't have to be measured and thought out. It doesn't have to be deliberate. I can write a flash, a few words, but it still fills the space somehow. Slow drops in the deep bucket.

This moment is here: spooning a cold mango smoothie out of the food processor bowl, slow pats on my sleeping kitten's belly, and words. They're in my head. You don't understand how they're in my head. They are clawing and heaving and crazy-eyed.

I said I'd be brief and I will. The last stretch home down a skinny one-way street. I never walk down it. I remembered there was a magnolia tree there and I wanted to see if there were a few heavy blooms still hanging. There weren't, but beside the magnolia was this wild pink tree. I was grateful.

0

the way of things.

It has been a wide-and-round one month since I last wrote here. Technically one month and two days. When I looked at the calendar, suddenly I was struck with the realization that if I don’t get these fingers a-typing, May will have slipped by completely. Since I began this blog, I have ridden the tides of much and little to say, but I haven’t yet let an entire month pass in silence. It was a close call this time.

My world is saturated in the emotion of the day. Everyone experiences this saturation, I think. On a bad day, everything is a little grim. On a good day, everyone seems a little generous. It is only the color of our perspective that changes. Regardless, when my eyes gloss over with overwhelming and fearful things in life, when the way of things is suddenly changed, when I am squinting down an unfamiliar path and no one is telling me what to do next, well - those times the world shrinks small and there seems to be nothing to say.

I was driving across town late last night to pick Jacob up after rehearsal, driving to a part of the city I rarely go, and I debated which route would be fastest. I settled on Florida Ave. It was late, as I said, and I was tired, and the streets just seemed to be brimming with drunk people, stumbling in the street, and vacant faces, and certainly people who wanted to harm me. In short, the world seemed cold and dark and I wished I wasn’t out in it. When I found Jacob waiting on the corner, he climbed into the car and I burst out with, Sometimes I just hate living in the city!

a sloppy hand.

I have never known if I am ambitious enough to be an artist. Actually, I don’t know what artist means in the context of my life. I am less interested in giving myself over to an art form. I am more interested in giving myself over to life and letting the art-making-process permeate my life.

This is the reason that sometimes I struggle to say, I am a writer. I feel a little more comfortable with, I am a person who writes. The distinctions and minutiae that make sense in my head usually exist only in my head. I need someone to break the spell.

A side-effect of writing less is that everything seems less legitimate and less interesting. If I don’t write much, it seems like I probably don’t have claims to write anything. Writing regularly doesn’t necessarily mean you’re better, it just means you have dulled the nerves that cringe at the ego-centrism of writing. These may be cringing nerves that are mine alone, because I’ve never really liked much attention.

Coasting is easier, it is always easier. It is a good way to lose yourself and to lose the things that anchor you to life, your life, the life that is and will always be yours alone. The one.

In every part of my life, I order things. I tidy up. I make lists. But sometimes I want to write with a sloppy hand. I don’t care very much if it makes sense. This is a practice in...in what? In release of control. In feeling the wildness of the world under my skin. It is a break from myself and my own instincts. Perhaps it doesn’t make for an interesting read. But maybe you know the feeling?

bright shining.

Most of the time I spend writing, I am trying to capture some beauty or hope that I’ve felt, something in a fleeting moment that I want desperately to share. I don’t know if I can even go so far as to call these feelings - they’re something a bit deeper and more instinctive.

It’s all wild and wrapped up in how the bright sun is shining in the alley - the white light and the red bricks and the blue sky.

I just love this blog so much. This lady has got a head like mine. Food is all woven into her observations on life. But most importantly, I don’t know how, but she captures that grain of a moment - the one that is filled up with beauty and longing and hopeful feathers. It’s a clarity of mind, of observation, of reflection. Whatever it is, it sings inside of me. This post reminded me.

Jacob told me the other night that he had been thinking about how important it is for a creative person to have someone behind them. When the work of a creative person lives so much in the head, it’s invaluable to have someone who loves you unconditionally and really believes in you. It’s powerful to have someone believe that you’re capable of making great art. It is one thing to talk all abstract about what it means to be an artist. It is another to really figure out what it means - what it means in life, real life, the life where you pay bills and eat food and forge relationships.

notice.

I’ve been reading Joan Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem slowly. To be honest, I’ve been reading it since last summer. It’s not that I don’t like it, but when you have a large stack of books you’re reading, you have to pick one at a time. This one kept slipping to the bottom of the pile. I’m embarrassed because I feel that I'm exactly the sort of person who's supposed to be very well read in Joan Didion and I should love her.

At any rate, I’m in the last pages now. It turns out this collection makes good bus reading, i.e. I can read it in 10-15 minute chunks without feeling uncomfortable. Also, I’ve been reading it much more quickly since I got to her essay, On Keeping a Notebook. I got excited because she describes what I’ve always felt was a weird habit of mine: I observe things, remember an alarming number of details, and write them down. I don’t know why or for what. I write down pieces of conversation I hear on the bus. I write down that I saw an old man slowly get off his bike yesterday and push it across the street. I write down the color of the pavement outside the window of my office and how the color changes with the rain.

From time to time I think that these pieces will all come together someday into a story? an essay? a poem? But the truth is, they’ll probably just live on indefinitely in my retired notebooks. Didion says that this practice is important not for remembering details, but for remembering who you were when you observed the details. I dig that. My contribution is that I think it’s important because it makes observation a practice. In a world full of distraction and masses of faces glued to phones (soapbox?) it’s useful to remember how much you can hear and see just by looking up and looking around.