Watch this.
Don’t take your eyes off of it, you might miss a year.
It’s really stunning.
Reminds me of that line in the Safran Foer story: “He suddenly spoke, suddenly reasoned. One day I couldn’t help him with his math. He got married.”
And the thing is, it almost feels that fast while living it.
Sigh.
I have 7,538 messages in my email inbox on my laptop. I spent 20 minutes today deleting 572 emails from my iPhone, only to have the phone helpfully download another 500 from the archive.
A couple of weeks ago I spent several hours unsubscribing from many many email lists.
Many remain. Many from various causes I have signed petitions for; many of them in the future will probably be regarding various causes I would sign petitions for.
But does it really make any difference at all?
I would like to just unsubscribe from them all so I could stop cluttering up my life and making my days busier than they already are, but I fear that’s just, well,
and exactly why we find ourselves in the situation in which we find ourselves.
No easy answer to that one, what?
Is this all true — I mean true, and true (if that makes sense)?
He is an idiot.
You gotta love it when your political opponent does your campaigning for you.
I find myself thinking still about Merwin’s “On the Subject of Poetry,” especially trying to figure out why Merwin called it that, and I think I owe oldblack an apology.
I think I got it all wrong.
Instead, the young man in the garden, with his hands in his pockets, listening to the wheel that is not there, is us, trying to discern what the poem means. And it is exactly that enigmatic nature that is poetry.
. . .He does not move
His feet nor so much as raise his head
For fear he should disturb the sound he hears
Like a pain without a cry, where he listens. . .
You can hear it, see it, just there. No, not there, there. And trying to explain it is the act which destroys it.
For some reason this reminds me of a beautiful, powerful moment in the haunting movie Tsotsi. Tsotsi, (the name he has given himself means, literally, “thug,”) has invaded a young woman’s home and is forcing her to nurse the infant he has inadvertently stolen and then decided to keep. He notices some mobiles the woman has made. One is made of bits of scrap metal. When Tsotsi asks her why it’s all rusty she replies, simply, “I was sad.” Another is of broken, colored glass. He pokes his head into its dangling strands and asks, “This one, you were happy? How much?” She says “Fifty dollars.” “Fifty? For broken glass?” “No, silly, for light, and color, on you. Can’t you see?”
I’m sick of politics and politicians, I’m sick of women being treated like chattel, I’m sick of feeling like no matter how I spend my time or my day or my life or my money I could have/should have spent it better.
I peruse headlines for something to write about and I just sigh in a combination of resignation and despair.
I’m going to take the dog for a walk, and then we’re going to have tuna steaks and salad for dinner, with an amusing white wine. Then I’m going to write a list of things my son should do between now and when he graduates from college and moves to Madison, Wisconsin to start his FIRST REAL JOB (yarly! yeah! go First Son!) (get a credit card, buy clothes for work, figure out what furniture/dishes/potsandpans he needs and how many of those things he can get from our basement on his way from Cleveland to Madison, research cars and think about what kind of a car he wants/needs/can afford, etc. etc.) and then I’m going to read my book or knit.
I’m also going to ponder, as I have been for the past two weeks, two really important questions:
Should I quit at least one of my jobs?
Can I afford/justify these boots?
These two questions are, in case you didn’t notice, directly related.
And the boots are $515, ifthatmakesanydifference.
I’m thinking no, no matter what the answer to the first question is.
And I can’t wait for my glow-in-the-dark paint to come so I can make these jars:
That’s all.
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