So suddenly blogging once again loses its appeal to me. But I am going to force myself to do it right now, because I think it’s a better choice than the alternative.
What’s the alternative? I have the sudden impulse once again to retreat to pen and notebook, which I used all the way through the second half of 2015. But I know, better than I like to admit, that this is really a way of withdrawing into myself, of finding safety in tinier and tinier spaces until I have crammed the entirety of myself into a little four-by-six-inch book—that I can then close.
That won’t do. It just won’t do. I can’t allow it to do.
— § —
I have silently disassembled today. Yes, the today that I was so annoyed with earlier. I reached into its core and began to take out bits and pieces, some of them mechanical and some of them organic, like pumpkin innards in October. I did not keep the bits; I tossed them aside silently and continued to reach-and-remove, moment by moment, until nothing was left.
There is a kind of sin in neutering a day in this way. It was a day, after all. An entire day. A day on which to be alive. A day that all of the dead, who lie helpless and without a voice, might well have wished to have. One more day. But I had it. And rather than respect it, I resented it and then I did it under.
Yes, there is sin in laying waste to a day, particularly when deadlines approach and people depend on you. But what’s done is done. Today is no more, and today was not used, and I am the guilty party. May the punishment be far less serious than the crime.
— § —
I am going to have a reading night with the kids. Reading is becoming a bigger and bigger thing in my life, something that feels of value. We’ve plowed our way through some twelve chapter books since October (the kids are three and five, but they seem to love it) and are averaging a book a week at this point.
It’s a nice thing, a lovely thing, a real thing. Something that I can do, and can do well, and that makes the world better.
— § —
One of the dreary things about life is that understanding things doesn’t always enable you to fix them, maintain them, or improve them. Sometimes your understanding is simply an understanding of things beyond your influence and ability.
— § —
An old high school friend has been posting on Facebook about the novel he’s writing (really writing, with an agent’s representation and professional input). These days I generally tend to assume that this is the direction that I’m moving. Not necessarily as a career choice; I may not get there entirely until I’m quite old.
But in the end, the last thing I see that I’d like to do, that I’d value, is to tell stories.
I think at the moment, however, that I’m still too close to the human drama of everyday life to be able to do it. The danger is still too real to imagine and to write in that way; I’d be revealing too much, about myself and about everyone I’ve ever known.
Another five years, perhaps? Ten?
In any case, I can’t imagine myself not eventually taking it up as a kind of intensive hobby, whether or not anything I craft is ever published. The need to type words is just too great in me, and the need to do it in such a way that creates is an intrinsic part of the impulse.
— § —
“There is no such thing as perpetual tranquillity of mind while we live here; because life itself is but motion, and can never be without desire, nor without fear, no more than without sense.”
— § —
Sometimes I feel bad about not sourcing the quotes that I post here any longer.
But most of the time I don’t.
I think it’s fair to just say, for the record: if there are quote marks around it and it’s in italics, I’m probably not the one that came up with it. That one above is Hobbes (Thomas, not Calvin and—).
Things that are mine go without the punctuation.
— § —
It’s dark already. The day has been officially destroyed and dismantled.
Time to read.