14 March 2011

March 14, 2011

There’s been this girl at Starbucks the last few mornings. She sits at the table across from me and lays her backpack against the legs of her chair, gets out her book and reads for hours. She’s reading “How to make work work for the highly sensitive person.” I want to ask her what lead to her admitting she needed a book like that, but I’m too scared to talk to her. Don’t want to upset her.

A lot of the things that happen to me happen inside a Starbucks. I’m okay with that.

I heard somewhere that a person needs only live until they are 11 to have all the material they need to last a lifetime. And you get a lot from books and movies, of course.

I think creative work is always rhythmic. You run the risk of filling up folder after folder of unfinished projects, thinking you are getting things done, but really accomplishing nothing. I think that’s what they mean by not mistaking activity for achievement. You have to create and then rework. Create and then rework. What I’m saying is that you have to finish stuff, otherwise you’re not getting anywhere.

Daylight savings time is the most complicated thing I do.

I’m reading a book by a sadomasochist. It feels terrible to say that, like that’s who he is, all he is, which it’s not. I’ve read another book of his, listened to interviews. I think he might be the most compassionate writer out there today. One of the most talented. The book is pretty graphic though, shocking in parts. Sometimes I have to put it down.

I know some people who would call it garbage.

I got a literature paper back from my professor and she’d made all sorts of terrible suggestions. Commas in places that destroyed rhythm, semi-colons in places that weren’t even correct. I thought I was going to school to become a better writer. I made the changes though. I just wanted an A.

You have to wonder why Christian art is so god-damn terrible. You have to wonder what it means, because it does mean something.

We went to lunch today, just four of us. We drank sweet tea and ate potatoes and sandwiches and we laughed about things I can’t even remember now. It was nice. And I guess what I’m talking about is the way that laughter sort of lingers in our memories. The way we forget what we were even laughing about because it wasn’t as important as the laughter itself.

Okay, now I’m not even sure.

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