A coworker that I quite like is leaving my place of work.  The new position is at a large exciting company, doing the work that she really wants to do, and she’s been with my current organization for four years.  She’s ready for a change, and I understand.

Today she showed me a picture on her phone of a painting she had just completed for a friend.  It was physically the largest work that she had done – the canvas was 4’x5′ I think – with the face of the Buddha dissolving into luminous mist.

I asked her about giving up a physical piece of work she had created.  When I’ve been creating, the work I’ve done is always disembodied.  I can give away however many copies of text I create and still keep it.  Theatre is different in that the work is born and gone again and again for every performance until the run is over, and then it’s nowhere and nothing.  But a physical artifact you made that leaves your home to live somewhere else – that’s different.

She said that she got what she most needed from the painting by the act of creating it.  It’s a piece that reflects peace among churning, which was exactly what she needed while she contemplated this next stage of her career and chapter of her life.  It’s also a piece that was the most literally rigorous that she had done so far, due to its scale and to the texturing on the paint that the pixels on her phone couldn’t convey.

I thought about how much of my time is spent being essentially without a body beyond my eyes looking at screens and my fingers manipulating buttons.  My body reminds me of itself by noting that my neck is sore, that I’ve been grinding my teeth (waking and sleeping), that the ligaments in my wrists are working and need a break.  It reminds me of its presence by telling me that something is wrong.

Walking helps, and yoga helps, and sitting still and marveling that breath is possible helps.  Maybe the trick is to find more things to do instead of things to look at.

Oddly, my cat is amazing at reminding me that I have a body, in pleasant and not-so-nice ways.  (Reminds me a bit of this piece I just read: My Cat Saved Me From Depersonalization Disorder.)  Sometimes it’s the way that she just assumes that my lap is available to make a nest in with a confidence that I frankly envy.  The matter of fact way that she pushes her head under my hand because it gives her pleasure.  That she purrs and breathes and radiates heat.  Other times it’s the nips and the accidental scratches when I haven’t trimmed her nails enough.

But I can’t get away from the dichotomy of “my body is an animal that wants warmth and comfort and food and touch and sunlight and food and sometimes wine” as opposed to “I am an animal.”

Is the Buddha an animal?

There have been times that I would have been more than happy to dissolve into mist myself.


Starting over

I’m starting this again after three years.  Which feels like trying to walk again, everything alien and contrived and overextended, even this early in the game.

I need to get back into the pattern of writing and pretending that I am writing for an audience.  But it is so very strange to look back at entries from even just a few years ago.  I recognize the voice still but tire at the lack of capitalization now.  Smacks of high school me (even though I did it up through only the recent past… we always like to pretend that our past is further behind us than it is).

Speaking of high school, college, early years out of college, that swath of what felt pre-adult: today was the first evening after living by myself again that I felt restless.  That I didn’t have an immediate project at hand (building furniture, busily looking at furniture online to buy, work project, etc).  I felt bored and boring, but the effort of reaching out to anyone was too much, especially when I had no idea what I wanted to do.  I tried watching Grey Gardens (I’d never seen it) and couldn’t focus.  I tried listening to a podcast while wandering around my apartment seeing if there were small tasks that I could do, and there wasn’t, really.  A book felt like giving up to solitude a little too much.  A few potential writing topics loomed and still loom and I don’t feel ready yet.  It is now light past 7pm which makes the evening stare me in the face and dare me to do something meaningful with my life, at least for another 90 minutes.

So I went for what ended up being a long walk in semi-rainy weather, with songs stuck in my head and feeling vaguely wistful and melancholy in an unrooted way.  I thought of all the other long evening walks in semi-rainy weather that I took before dating Kevin, walks that felt somewhat meaningful for no other reason than that I had mixed emotions and was walking in wet air.

There was a moment on my way back, coming down Queen Anne hill and suddenly seeing Elliot Bay in front of me in the distance, when there was a shock of recognition.  You’ve been here the whole time, I thought.  And tears actually came to my eyes, seeing the water there, massive and steady and distant, a counterbalance that I had forgotten existed.

And then turning west onto the street where I live, somehow the sky had managed to go mauve and rose and grey and caught me completely by surprise.  I thought for a moment of taking a picture and realized that there would be no point.  The moment was here, the sky behind telephone lines and transit cables, and the camera would not see what I saw.  No one else would see what I saw.

Which is a reminder of how much other people (strangers on the bus, strangers huddled on the sidewalk with their belongings surrounding them) will see and never share with anyone else in this world.  Most moments can’t be shared.  They are barely even moments except for the thought that sometimes chimes during them of “No one else will ever see this exactly as I do right now”.  That is all that is memorable.

And that’s it.  I decided that I’d write something down about that on this blog to get me walking again.  I finally answered emails that had been left unanswered for far too long.

My life is not going to change; or rather, any one change is going to be tiny amidst the massive glacial changes that are already happening, and happening too slow. But I hope that this keeps going.

it doesn’t happen very often, but this is the time of year it happens in.  fall and spring.

i was walking to yoga after 6, and there’s a particular quality to dusk this time of year at this latitude – the sky goes grey-purple with yellow fire in the west, and while walking east past buildings you are struck by the strangeness of night starting to slow-blossom in front of  you while the mirrored skyscrapers before you still reflect gold.

it feels like skating on the edge of the earth.

i love the word crepuscular, and it applies very strongly to this feeling, this time of day and year.  there’s the hint of the word ‘creep’ in it, just as there is the hint of the word ‘cusp’ – it is a season of apprehension as leaves reveal their true colors and trees their real shapes, and the wind picks up at night and the world sursurrates around you.  the hint of winter, still obscured.

i was walking on a street i usually don’t walk down, and maybe it’s just the october getting to me, but it felt abruptly surreal in its half-familiarity.  the headache that had been stalking me all day did not quite catch up to me but i felt its breath in my temples and the back of my skull, and the feeling of something perilous, of walking on the edge of an abyss, made me afraid of people and of stepping off the edge of the curb.

i crossed a bridge built the year you were born and could not help but think of the hollow space between my feet and the freeway.

there are times when i feel deeply alien from my surroundings and i am afraid that people can see it in my face.  i realize that this makes me act stranger than i would otherwise and probably attracts more of the attention that i fear, but i can’t stop how my heart is beating.  it feels like it will take my ribs along with it.

when i am finally in yoga it is such a relief that someone is here to tell me when to breathe.  i have realized when i am most vulnerable that this surrender of will is deeply comforting.  inhale with this position.  exhale with this one.  hold.  feel this stretch here.  lift.  hold.

it’s in the relaxation pose at the end that i am suddenly unmoored and in the deep again and tears come out of my eyes, but thank god i am in the back of the class and no one sees me, no one is looking at me, and when we sing ‘om’ at the end i do my best to become nothing more than a hollow chamber for the syllable (a dipthong) and i’m fine up until we close the sound and my voice stops.

there is no one to tell me to breathe when i am walking home in the dark.

i drink a glass of whiskey and eat an egg with siracha on it so that my lips burn and they don’t feel like mine anymore.

maybe i need to cut my hair short again.  i feel like i need to cut something off.

“Suffering was the gateway to compassion”

couple things.

– There’s a little gem nested at the end of this long and somewhat troubling article (interesting, to be sure!  most troubling things are) that was the one point that I could wholeheartedly empathize with the author:

For these reasons, I am becoming convinced that the only real way to “personal growth” outside of direct action is through careful study of fiction.  Of course stories may have an intended meaning, but a well written story allows you to ask not just “what does the story mean?” but “why do I think that this is what the story means?”

– Just read this other article that is also troubling, but in a far more direct way in terms of the issues it addresses rather than the squidgy unreliable narrator aspect – The Bible Is Not a Diet Plan.

As someone who used to identify as a Christian, specifically as a Protestant, the rise of “self-help” bibles catered and tailored and filleted to the reader’s specification and comfort level is both worrisome and profoundly aggravating.  I don’t think that the Bible should be taken as a literal text by any means (I think that it is the work of humanity, not divinity), but even in that perspective, this is just fucking sick:

Daniel, one of the four kidnapped Jewish youths, “resolved not to defile himself with the royal food and wine,” and chose to subsist on vegetables instead, ending up as healthy as anyone in his captors’ court. So, as Time magazine recently reported, Warren has “launched the Daniel Plan, a comprehensive health-and-fitness program.”

We’ve seen this rise in the last century, the idea that God is a benevolent spirit who just wants you to be wealthy and prosperous and comfortable, and now also thin and healthy.  Which flies so deeply in the face of the events and perspectives recorded in the text that it does the most sickening disservice to its authors and their experiences.  Using the word “sacrilegious” has a connotation that is not what I want – again, I don’t think that the Bible is holy as such – but people lived and died for this stuff.  They lived and recorded and made up or whatever things deeply important to them, vital, and it lasted through thousands of years of history and mistranslation and restoration to promote a low-carb diet plan?

A story, sacred or secular, is a test of our empathy: an invitation to enter into the trials and hopes of a stranger. And it takes a remarkable self-centeredness to deliberately reject that invitation, to mine that story for anything that helps us grow our portfolios or shrink our waistlines, and throw away the husk of the human at its heart once we’ve sucked out all we can use. We can read selfishly just as we can act selfishly.

The author of the article points out that this appropriation is not new, citing medieval artistic depictions of biblical events in which all of the characters are wearing contemporary garments.  And he also points out that this is a useful tool in developing empathy – illustrating that the lives and actions and doubts and mistakes recorded in the text are ones that are not alien to us, because in one form or another we as human beings are wrestling with the same angels.

And I guess monetary gain from shaping an interpretation of scripture a particular way isn’t new either.  But the entire point of the Protestant Reformation (other than Henry VIII’s libido) was moving away from grace that could be purchased from the the village priest in the forms of indulgences.  (An interesting foreshadowing to Citizens United, actually – the more money you had, the more grace you could buy from God.)

But it means something when whatever marketing scheme you have must be divorced completely from context:

Do you remember The Prayer of Jabez, the Christian motivational book that sold nine million copies a decade ago? Its author, Bruce Wilkinson, urged readers to “enlarge their territory” by repeating word-for-word the prayer for success attributed to Jabez in the Book of Chronicles. Here’s how Wilkinson dispenses with all of the context around those magic words of prosperity:

“You’ll find [Jabez] hiding in the least read section of one of the least-read books of the Bible. The first nine chapters of 1 Chronicles are taken up with the official family tree of the Hebrew tribes… Talk about boring! The long lists of unfamiliar and difficult names—more than five hundred of them—are likely to make even the bravest Bible student turn back.”

Genealogies are “boring” and “difficult”—because we can’t use them. But they were recorded and preserved with such care because the strangers who wrote that book could use them. For the huge majority of human history, they were the measure of a man’s life. They bound you to your history and your land; they gave you a place among cousins, grandparents, sprawling generations of ancestors, in a rooted institution radically different from what passes for a family today. From Israel to China, generations of our ancestors memorized the names of their fathers’ fathers, chanted them, worked them into poems. Genealogies are a window into the alien minds of our forebears. But we cannot use them to get rich or thin. Wilkinson’s verdict: “boring!”

How can we love our neighbor if we cannot bother to understand – or at least acknowledge – what is/ was important to them?  How can we do this in the present, which is too close to not be uncomfortable and messy and incomplete, if we cannot do it with the past?

We must start somewhere.  I cannot live anyone’s life but my own.  My brain and experience is stuck behind my specific eyes, and I cannot change that.  But I can read and I can try to understand.  And this goes as clearly for the bible as it does for Moby Dick and The Satanic Verses and Mrs Dalloway.

to remember

this beautifully addresses a huge conflict in being a person – how can you love anyone when everyone is terrible in their own way?  and the importance of functioning as an artist, recognizing your own terribleness and finding compassion in others’.

some loveliness:

“Against the beautiful and the clever and the successful,” he reasons, “one can wage a pitiless war, but not against the unattractive: then the millstone weighs on the breast.”

What John Le Carré referred to as Greene’s “transcendent universal compassion,” Iyer has described as “the fellow feeling that one wounded, lonely, scared mortal feels for another, and the way that sometimes, especially in a moment of crisis, when we ‘forget ourselves’ (which is to say, escape our thoughts and reflexes), a single extended hand makes nonsense of all the curlicues in our head.” But never in Greene’s work is this hand extended by a saint. His characters are tormented souls and sinners all, cut from his own cloth.

In Greene’s view, even God is fallible, with a nature as divided and uncertain as our own. “We are part of the evolution of God,” he said, “and Hitler obviously aids the dark side of God, whilst Gandhi, John XXIII and [Cesar] Chavez aid the day side […] If God is torn as we are between the dark and the bright — and therefore suffers a certain division and anguish as we do — it makes Him a more sympathetic figure.” Through Scobie, Greene expressed an abiding distrust of any God who could cause the suffering of innocents, “who was not human enough to love what he had created.” Unfortunately, he found abundant evidence of this inhumane God in his lifetime, which encompassed the horrors of two World Wars, the Great Depression, and the Cold War. In Greene’s experience, Hazzard writes, “pleasure could not be an assumption and was not a goal; whereas suffering was a constant, and almost a code of honour. Suffering was the attestable key to imaginative existence.” Why? Because, in Greene’s experience, suffering was the gateway to compassion.

emphasis mine.  I was just speaking with another friend who considers himself an artist about what depression/ suffering does in terms of artistic development.  it’s an easy and cliched trap in which to fall, the pursuit of unhappiness because it assists you in plumbing deeper depths and makes you a more “interesting” or “profound” person.

but suffering only makes you greater as an artist if it makes you greater as a person.  if it extends your capacity for compassion.  and as such, it must be genuine, perhaps unexpected, rather than the masturbatory self-sabotage that we’ve seen artists – and people – fall into as a yearning to find a shortcut to living.

“Writing is a form of therapy. Sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear which is inherent in the human situation.”

“There are so many things that bother one about the world,” he told Shenker. “Injustice, intolerance. And that it all comes to an end.”

and compassion in some way demands action, i think.  whether donating or volunteering or taking the moment to look at someone else as a person.  the responsibility we have to each other.  and any artist that neglects to give and create beyond one’s own ego, one’s desire for admiration and praise…

we have a responsibility that we are nonetheless unable to fulfill in its impossible entirety:

Greene thus suggests that to be alive in this world is to have responsibilities, not just to oneself or for those closest, but in relationship to the complicated truth of all humankind. What’s tucked between the lines is the enormity of the suffering that Scobie perceives yet cannot comprehend, let alone assuage.

“The lights inside would have given an extraordinary impression of peace if one hadn’t known, just as the stars on this clear night also gave an impression of remoteness, security, freedom. If one knew, he wondered, the facts, would one have to feel pity even for the planets? If one reached what they called the heart of the matter.”

Remember that this novel is set in West Africa in the middle of World War II. Submarines are patrolling the Atlantic and sinking civilian ships, and far to the north European Jews are forced to wear yellow stars pinned to their coats. No direct mention is ever made in these pages of Kristallnacht, Auschwitz, or Bergen-Belsen, and yet, even in this fictional outpost, peace is an illusion. In actual fact, those stars represent the exact opposite of security and freedom. “How I hate this war,” Scobie thinks. No matter how far away human strife and suffering may be, “one still has one’s eyes…one’s ears…the restlessness, the haunting images, the terrible impotent feeling of responsibility and pity.”

peace is an illusion within my lifetime.  there’s the saying that colleges especially like to spout, that a threat to justice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.  which i don’t think is untrue.

but how can human beings be legitimately just?

spoken with humorous mistakes, yet sometimes strikingly true – a summary of european history from the lines of history essays from snot-nosed freshmen papers.

History, as we know, is always bias, [sic] because human beings have to be studied by other human beings, not by independent observers of another species.

nothing else but this could have happened

the hottest day of the summer was yesterday.  one of the hottest days i’ve experienced in seattle.  a friend and i went down to the crowded beach and lay in the sun right up next to the water.  when we ran in the water it was so cold, the waves unexpectedly powerful, pulling currents of heat and cold (or rather freezing and slightly less freezing) against us, and it was wonderful.

it was also the weekend the blue angels were in seattle and the sky would rend occasionally with the sound.  the doppler effect perfectly illustrated – the noise is so absolutely directional, but when you look at the source of the noise, what you are looking for isn’t there, but behind a tree already, a building, looping in the sky.  terrifying.

they flew over us when we were in the water, flying so low over buildings that catastrophe seems imminent,  and i cowered in the water that had a moment ago been refreshing and was suddenly horribly cold, and i was being pushed by waves and shivering.

back on the beach in the sun, suddenly tired, wiped out by the temperature change, my feet regaining feeling, i closed my eyes and thought about evaporation.  i thought about it very hard.  i wanted right them to rise like steam into the cloudless blue sky and not be anyone or do anything again except be in the light.

the past few weeks it’s seemed that the world is ending.  which sadly, rationally, i think that it is – the world as we know it, at least.  i felt like this coming back from india, when reverse culture shock was tremendous and i couldn’t seem to cross the uncanny valley into the lifestyle that everyone in america thought was completely normal, and which is so simply impossible…

it feels like acceleration.  even between horrific mass murders, the refractory period feels shorter.

i know a lot of this is my own state of mind.  pareidolia.  a hefty pinch more is reading ray bradbury.  i finally have read the illustrated man, and it’s beautiful and eschatological and heartbreaking.

there’s a story that made me sob audibly, current sad sack that i am – The Last Night of the World.

He sat back in his chair, watching her.  “Are you afraid?”

“No.  I always thought I would be, but I’m not.”

“Where’s that spirit called self-preservation they talk so much about?”

“I don’t know.  You don’t get too excited when you feel things are logical. This is logical.  Nothing else but this could have happened from the way we’ve lived.

“We haven’t been too bad, have we?”

“No, nor enormously good.  I suppose that’s the trouble – we haven’t been very much of anything except us, while a big part of the world was busy being lots of quite awful things.”

emphasis mine.  i don’t know if i agree with everything in this particular passage.  the characters speaking are presumably american, and that last sentence is… not exactly an excuse.  but it is a way of saying, ‘well, we directly didn’t do what will end the world… we just let it happen.  we didn’t police hard enough.’

which isn’t the case.  we as a nation have done so much to build the trap our species is now caught in.  by using electricity generated by waterpower (damn dams) or coal, a computer made from heavy metals shipped across the ocean, i am building the trap too.  it is no longer a very viable option in our society to not be building the trap.  living ‘off the grid’ is an option but not a realistic one.  and probably not one that will make enough of a difference, this late on.  to be horrible and blunt, even suicide exacts an environmental cost – transportation for funerals, burial procedures, etc.

i don’t do well with problems that feel unsolvable, on either the global or personal level.

there was a period tonight when i reached the chemical equilibrium that suddenly made recent events not matter anymore, no longer have a weight in my bones.  it’s temporary and already fading.  i don’t know how to feel about it.  it happens often now that when i look at my reflection or reflect on my life that i’m just bored.  sadness is monotonous.  we like our sadness to be passionate and tragic, and sometimes it is in glints and flickers.  but after a while it’s dull.  i’m still stuck on the play i’m writing.  i no longer have a source for ready projects with the carrot of them becoming a reality, the stick of someone caring about what i wrote.  not that that was always enough.  i don’t know what i want to do with my life, if i should be looking for another job, if anything will grab me again as roughly as i need.  and this ambivalence is boring!  things are only interesting if they are specific, and with the raw exception that erupts sometimes these days and is maybe worse, most of what i feel is a banal generality.

i thought that i was better than this.  i thought that i was stronger than this, that i had grown more, and learned more.  that somehow i wouldn’t get knocked flat on my ass like i was after the first time, the beginning of freshman year of college, when my first boyfriend broke up with me.

i thought that i’d have more dignity this time.

“the lacuna,” barbara kingsolver

Two characters are discussing nationality and history.  Americans love being told about how they have slipped the noose of history, that their story is something beyond that of their forefathers; Mexicans are rooted in history as the foundation of the world.  On the Day of the Dead:

“People love it, as much as they love a wedding.  Really it is a kind of wedding, to the people in your past.  You take a vow they’re all still with you.  You cook a feast and bring enough food for the dead people too.”

I was in a vulnerable moment and that line blinded me momentarily.  We are married to our past.  Maybe more accurately, widowed – a bond that lasts but can be superceded, and is, because we are betrothed to the future.  It is an arranged marriage.  We will meet it for the first time tomorrow, our wedding day.  I know that I am stretching this metaphor to its utmost limit.  But it’s been haunting me.


Maddow suffers, she says, from “cyclical” depression. “One of the manifestations of depression for me is that I lose my will. And I thereby lose my ability to focus. I don’t think I’ll ever have the day-to-day consistency in my performance that something like This American Life has. If I’m not depressed and I’m on and I can focus and I can think through something hard and without interruption and without existential emptiness that comes from depression, that gives me – not mania. But I exalt. I exalt in not being depressed.”

From “Rachel Maddow’s Quiet War,” Ben Wallace-Wells

recognition – prayer – franny and zooey revisited – “be specific” – love is evil

A sister of a friend killed herself this morning.  I did not know her, though I knew of her.  Her brother, my friend, had been coming down from Bellingham for the past few weeks to help her.  After many years she was finally getting help.  She was on medication, in therapy I think, getting ECT.  It had only been recently that she had gotten back in touch with her brother after years of silence.  The only way he had known that she was still alive was her name on prestigious research papers in her field.

Her family has a history of bipolar disorder.  I’m not sure if that is necessarily what she had.  Her brother had been cleaning out her apartment when he was in town over the weekends.  She kept everything.

It’s never not a shock.

I have not directly known anyone who committed suicide.  Yet because I have a handful of times in my life sat in that doorway, unable to comprehend continuing for another 5 minutes, let alone another day… I feel a sense of terrible recognition.  Perhaps that is presumptuous of me.  I remember the few times I have been so far gone that I knew if I continued I would hurt everyone that I knew horribly and I still couldn’t see any other option, any way of avoiding that, and yet was lucky enough that the cat would come and sniff me, or I lifted the thousand-pound phone to call a friend.  I remember how disappointed in myself I felt in those moments before I would be called back by life, disappointed in how I would hurt others.  But in a strange way it was a disappointment of something that had already happened and was unchangeable.

I feel guilty when I hear of someone committing suicide out of depression, because I recognize it.

I found out about her suicide this morning coming into work and thought about my friend.  I do not believe in God anymore exactly and yet there was something like prayer happening.  Carefully holding a hollowness in my heart, as gingerly as a bird, of focus, of breathing sadness, of thoughts of… please have mercy on us.  An appeal to something I didn’t know for something that I couldn’t name.  Please.  Please.

A friend was giving away books last weekend.  One of them was a very battered copy of Franny and Zooey.  I first read it the summer before going to college, recommended by my boyfriend at the time, and I was interested in seeing it from another angle.

There is something so very young about it.  Reading it now I’m 25 instead of 18.  I am Zooey’s age instead of Franny’s.  Salinger is perfect in capturing the paralysis of adolescence, of so clearly seeing all of the shortcomings in those around you but also yourself, of scrabbling so hard against the limits of your ego, desperate to break out and only digging yourself deeper.  Tunnel vision.

This is the passage that P copied for me:

If God had wanted somebody with St Francis’s consistently winning personality, he’d’ve picked him, you can be sure.  As it was, he picked the best, the smartest, the most loving, the least sentimental, the most unimitative master he could possibly have picked.  And when you miss seeing that, I swear to you, you’re missing the whole point of the Jesus Prayer.

The Jesus Prayer that Franny has picked up is “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.”  A prayer that you can say continuously, a mantra with every inhale and exhale.

Zooey accuses her of what I think a lot of students of comparative religion or general spirituality (myself included) tend to do, which is to create something homogeneous and inoffensive.

You can say your prayer here and roll Jesus and St Francis and Seymour and Heidi’s grandfather all in one. … Can’t you see that?  Can’t you see how unclearly, how sloppily, you’re looking at things?

To believe in something, for your belief to have any meaning, it must be specific.  By being so it may become unpalatable and harsh and prickly, full of contradictions and challenges.  I admire those who truly believe, by which I mean who truly acknowledge and embrace the strangeness and difficulty and beauty in their belief, who are rigorous in their constant re-evaluation and study, who don’t let themselves get comfortable.  (Copying down Salinger is bringing out my own urge to italicize.)  God if it exists is not a comfortable concept.  The universe, if it exists, is not a comfortable concept, and science is about the continued skepticism and prodding and establishing the veracity of every footstep before continuing on.

So to pray to a deity you must be brave enough to be specific about to whom you are praying.  If you are being general, you are only praying to yourself.

I don’t know who I pray to.

Be specific.

I just finished an acting class.  The philosophy of acting is “living truthfully in imaginary circumstances.”

The first and last and always part of acting is learning how to live truthfully in factual circumstances.  It is not easy.  It is much easier to be banal and general and gloss things over.  But to be powerful you must be specific.  You must notice and you must respond, specifically; your every action is a vector, as in physics – something with not only magnitude but direction.

As a writer you are sometimes allowed to be unspecific.  The reader will fill in the texture of the character, the grain of the wood of the table at which your protagonist sits.  For an actor, you must find the character’s heartbeat, and it must pulse within your own ribs.  A heart does not beat ambivalently.

Love is worthless if it is not specific.  Zizek, the eternal troll that he is, tells us love is evil because it is specific, because we value some things above others and create an imbalance in the universe.  The catalyst that causes things to happen, and things that happen are things that will end.  Which to him is evil.

Words, words, words.

I don’t have any ending.

this is what has happened

this happened yesterday:

i have often been to this cafe/ bar and loved it.  i don’t personally know any of the people killed, but they were members of the seattle theatre and music community – friends of friends.  and i have many sad friends today.

the carjacking took place a few blocks away from my apartment.  i walk by that parking lot every day on my way to work.  i did so again today.

the past few days have been very grey, and my mood has not been in a good place to process that for unrelated reasons.  now the grey is that much more oppressive since so much of the city is in mourning.  it is a physical weight on my skin and at the bottom of my lungs.  

i suppose i’m lucky, because i haven’t been this sad for a while.  i remember “whole days would go by, and later their years” (exaggeration courtesy of o’hara) that felt full of this grey and it became nothing that unusual or worth commenting on.  i’ve been pretty happy for nearly a year now.  

the one trade-off is that when i am happy i am less creatively productive.  i’ve realized that the same part of me that makes me write is what makes me love – and when i have someone to love, i don’t have the same need to write.  when i don’t have someone is when i am most productive.  it’s the mathematics of the allocation of resources.  natural and frustrating.