A few months ago I had what was not so much a breakdown as simply running out of gas. Or this: I put away my map for just fifteen minutes, and I lost, entirely, my way.
I was standing on the back porch, talking with my brother-in-law about his life, his career, not mine. We talked about he didn't know what was next, about how he was going to take time to focus and his wife (my sister!) and family (my nephew!).
At the very end of the conversation I briefly mentioned that he had given me something to think about, just as casually as someone sneezing after visiting a relative recovering from the flu.
Friday, March 03, 2017
Stories
Stories aren't written. They only grow, like a mold.
Be kind to the writers you know; their job is to sit and watch mold grow and to, from that, draw justification and a sense of accomplishment.
Be kind to the writers you know; their job is to sit and watch mold grow and to, from that, draw justification and a sense of accomplishment.
Everyday, Every Day
The difference between "every day" and "everyday" is that the first refers to a daily event ("We're open for business from 9pm to 5pm every day!") and the second denotes something common ("Correcting people on their grammar is an everyday occurrence for jerks like him").
Break Fast
I'm taking a Lent-fuled pseudo-fast from social media, and I have decided blogging doesn't count against it.
Lent-fuled because I have become dimly aware that I have very little control over the come-hither gaze of Tumblr, Twitter, and Pinterest. A fast because the people I most admire exercise at least some measure of control over their lives -- a trait I will never have, but can reach for for the rest of my life if I like.
A pseudo-fast because, I suppose, I need now to handle with rubber gloves and a measured gate a swath of religious terms and I ideas with which, in my childhood, I would run freely around the house, barehanded and open-hearted. Like taking a bubble bath in the Arc of the Covenant. Now thirty and gun-shy, I run a tighter spiritual ship, less given to attributing to God, say, good parking spaces and recoveries from colds and more inclined to spend time crying in movie theaters and freaking out over rainbows. Which causes worry and grief in some (church friends, family, and my fellow drivers just after the sun drives away a heavy rain) and relief in others (me).
And blogging doesn't count because even mediocre posts like this require a measure of discipline my Tumblr-cruising self couldn't summon even if offered the totality of the Internet's Catherine Deneuve gifs.
Lent-fuled because I have become dimly aware that I have very little control over the come-hither gaze of Tumblr, Twitter, and Pinterest. A fast because the people I most admire exercise at least some measure of control over their lives -- a trait I will never have, but can reach for for the rest of my life if I like.
A pseudo-fast because, I suppose, I need now to handle with rubber gloves and a measured gate a swath of religious terms and I ideas with which, in my childhood, I would run freely around the house, barehanded and open-hearted. Like taking a bubble bath in the Arc of the Covenant. Now thirty and gun-shy, I run a tighter spiritual ship, less given to attributing to God, say, good parking spaces and recoveries from colds and more inclined to spend time crying in movie theaters and freaking out over rainbows. Which causes worry and grief in some (church friends, family, and my fellow drivers just after the sun drives away a heavy rain) and relief in others (me).
And blogging doesn't count because even mediocre posts like this require a measure of discipline my Tumblr-cruising self couldn't summon even if offered the totality of the Internet's Catherine Deneuve gifs.
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