that at the end of the day I feel that I deserve to spend the same amount of effort on my love-job as I spent on my paid-job. When I had a very productive day at paid-work this starts to cut down on sleep like a mother trucker.
is the title of a poem by e.e. cummings which sprang to mind when I sat down here to write tonight. Looking at the carefully-chosen-grey blank of the Word Press composition platform, I wondered where to start and the words that came to me first were “Thank You.”
Thank who? I’m not entirely sure and I’m not going to think too hard about it. I’m just grateful for the joy-life that parallels my work life, which has grown into a bravely beating heart of what I have long wanted to spend my life doing. And it feels quite natural at the same time that it is constantly exciting.
Artist: leaping hopeful excitement jitterbugs with abject terror to a band fueled by the drums of persistent craving determination.
Have a listen to Edward reading this very poem. Find your artist tonight: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axH9A28CTjw
My life continues in a vein of glitter, show girls, and bright lights. I am happy with that which concerns and affects me most days. Though I confess that I do not always show my appreciation with maximum productivity. Still I am enjoying my winking, blinking perpetual joy train. I don’t want to obscure my gratitude with the fleeting clouds of a frivolous discontent, but this day -vixen that she is- was so laden with the barbarisms of America’s ‘look at me’ culture that I can’t just shake my head and move on. So for a moment, I am going to uselessly complain about things that won’t stop happening.
Please stop apologizing for interrupting me. Instead, stop interrupting me. You do not have the right of way in this discourse. No amount of being older or younger or male-er or whiter or blacker or thinking you’re right or being tired of listening to me gives you the right to cut off my thought. You don’t actually know what I’m going to say yet. And I’m plenty tired of listening to you and I never cut you off. So just check yourself.
I’m not 25 anymore, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt that your peers have led you to believe that you’re funny, and you don’t actually mean anything that you say. Because how could you? When you’re stealing headlines from the internet and inserting them out-of-context into unrelated conversations. Upon further probing it’s clear that you have no depth of interest or real knowledge of the topic, you just wanted to say something startlingly random and make everyone laugh so you could feel like the big man for a moment. I will call you Chuckles. That is not an affectionate
And you. You’re older than me, so I was thinking you knew better. But actually your corny, entitled, lowbrow, self-aggrandizing, bullshit windbagging is so constant and thoroughgoing I find myself in a state of unwilling awe. Buried under your avalanches of grating, stale, extraneous verbiage, I’m going blue from all the oxygen you have sucked out of the room. Your forked silver tongue gouts rivers pure with modern evil: self-promoting individual-brand sloganized soul and content-free marketing. You are a breathing, eating, shitting tagline. You so quickly taint and dismay my heart I sometimes wonder if you are the devil. But I am certain he does not talk as much.
Even as I wane this evening, I’m moving my fingers to make the words I want to put out there to move my hopes and dreams forward, and -fatuous as it might seem- thicken one more gossamer thread between myself and another human being. Didn’t expect to overcome my desire to stop for a while. Goes to show what fuel is passion. How true and long-burning it can be. And so I did what I needed to, more priming of the soil. I look forward with open heart to whatsoever will bloom.
I arrived fashionably late to the party, except it started early.
Found a super-sweet, legal parking space, after running over a hazard cone, in front of the construction crew.
I roasted all the potatoes and made carrot soup; for lunch tomorrow.
I did not have the wine, but I think I’ll probably have ice cream for dinner.
Still making cookies, but I ran out of parchment.
Walked, and lugged, and sweated, but didn’t stretch.
Got that book out of the library I won’t have time to start.
Washed all the dishes just to make ‘em dirty again.
Leaned against the headstones and watched the cloudless blue sky on this day when summer’s come back to cha-cha with fall.
Well then, perfect.
Driving back from Newport tonight there was a moment when the dusk ahead of me had just turned cerulean, the sunset behind me was still orange and pink, and a perfect waxing crescent was setting over my left shoulder. And in spite of the phone, the wheels, my stomach ache nothing seemed more worthy of holding in my mind than the simple fact of all that beauty.
Family breakfast. Visit with a friend. Birthday dinner and dim sum. Deadline Monday for the best I can do, with what I’ve got, in the time I have. And oh my soul! do I want to succeed. So these words are true, but distracted. My inner peripheral vision is keenly spying the shapes, that make up the idea, that are Tetris-ing around the imaginary landscape of my thought lab actively seeking to fit together just so.
And maybe you need a puzzle. So dream of winning and enter to do so: The 1865 Project w/ Defibrillator Theatre company – https://www.facebook.com/defibrillatortheatre
Intensity loves (spiritual) company.