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So here's the thing. After spending a weekend talking and talking and talking, and then coming to work and reading and reading and reading, what's left to write about?
There's always more to write. Yet I feel less compelled to construct and more interested in recording.
On Saturday I was Spike and she was Buffy and on the sidewalk between us Sophie stretched out so her head was in the sun and her back legs reached back to the shadow. I bought shoes and a belt and we ate Popeye's and later we picked up our freshly scrubbed pup who felt as soft as I dreamed.
I met someone at a party that I've met half a dozen times before in the past five years, but this time it stuck. Because we did math problems. We calculated what chances are that on any given day that I wear my "luck of the irish" t-shirt that it's actually st. patrick's day. Sure, we did it wrong, but I'm about to e-mail him to correct our calculations. And he didn't seem too scared when I later confessed that I remembered we had a conversation for five minutes four years ago at a reception for Gloria Steinem.
At this same party I had a conversation with an artist (another who I've seen around for years at various events) where we talked about her sculpture and my mind was literally blown away by some of her ideas and ways of seeing. Later she made me laugh harder than I had all night when she regaled us with tales from growing up in a town in Georgia (she had dogs named Honeybear and Sweetiepie) that's not Toccoa (but Toccoa was what I pictured for some reason) and her family is from Meridian, Mississippi, only a couple highway exits down from Hattiesburg (where my parents are from) and also the hometown of Ms. Sela Ward. I didn't bring up Sela until later.
And last night I had dinner with Mickey the Kid who goes way back to the days of QWYR dinners at Northwestern and it was one of those few evenings in your life where you can say "my relationship with this person is going to change after this." For the better, I'm sure.
And on a ride home I talked about being fat and being not fat and wishing I had a tapeworm in high school and still nodding my head in agreement even when I know from the outside I don't appear to fit at all. At all. But I do and I always will, no matter how things shape up in the future (no pun intended). I will always carry around the awareness and even though I'm barely a bear now and fit very comfortably within the range of average male, it's impossible to completely forget, just like I still notice how many people are on a sidewalk at night when I'm alone and what their gender and body size are, to determine if I will choose running or fighting.
And I bought a dirty deck of tarot cards.
The mornings had Jeff Buckley and soy milk and sunshine and warm air and waves of guilt and coffee and passionate kisses and not enough sleep. But stepping off that sidewalk somehow always made it worth it.
There's always more to write. Yet I feel less compelled to construct and more interested in recording.
On Saturday I was Spike and she was Buffy and on the sidewalk between us Sophie stretched out so her head was in the sun and her back legs reached back to the shadow. I bought shoes and a belt and we ate Popeye's and later we picked up our freshly scrubbed pup who felt as soft as I dreamed.
I met someone at a party that I've met half a dozen times before in the past five years, but this time it stuck. Because we did math problems. We calculated what chances are that on any given day that I wear my "luck of the irish" t-shirt that it's actually st. patrick's day. Sure, we did it wrong, but I'm about to e-mail him to correct our calculations. And he didn't seem too scared when I later confessed that I remembered we had a conversation for five minutes four years ago at a reception for Gloria Steinem.
At this same party I had a conversation with an artist (another who I've seen around for years at various events) where we talked about her sculpture and my mind was literally blown away by some of her ideas and ways of seeing. Later she made me laugh harder than I had all night when she regaled us with tales from growing up in a town in Georgia (she had dogs named Honeybear and Sweetiepie) that's not Toccoa (but Toccoa was what I pictured for some reason) and her family is from Meridian, Mississippi, only a couple highway exits down from Hattiesburg (where my parents are from) and also the hometown of Ms. Sela Ward. I didn't bring up Sela until later.
And last night I had dinner with Mickey the Kid who goes way back to the days of QWYR dinners at Northwestern and it was one of those few evenings in your life where you can say "my relationship with this person is going to change after this." For the better, I'm sure.
And on a ride home I talked about being fat and being not fat and wishing I had a tapeworm in high school and still nodding my head in agreement even when I know from the outside I don't appear to fit at all. At all. But I do and I always will, no matter how things shape up in the future (no pun intended). I will always carry around the awareness and even though I'm barely a bear now and fit very comfortably within the range of average male, it's impossible to completely forget, just like I still notice how many people are on a sidewalk at night when I'm alone and what their gender and body size are, to determine if I will choose running or fighting.
And I bought a dirty deck of tarot cards.
The mornings had Jeff Buckley and soy milk and sunshine and warm air and waves of guilt and coffee and passionate kisses and not enough sleep. But stepping off that sidewalk somehow always made it worth it.
