28 September 2011

September 28, 2011

I told my friend that life was like a bunch of sticks holding each other up. If I took one away, they all might fall down. I don’t know if that was the best metaphor, looking back on it. I think taking a few sticks away would probably be a good thing. I think the other sticks would probably be just fine.

I took the day off on monday. I got to work but then decided to leave, to go read, to go sit, to go walk around. I read the Best American Essays of 1988, which was compiled by Annie Dillard that year. The pages were yellow and stiff and I worried that they might break away from the spine. I love Annie Dillard, and somehow reading those essays felt like getting to know her. Curation as an act of creation. Curation as an act of speaking.

I fell asleep on my living room floor with the book on my chest and my feet in a square of sunlight. It was surprisingly comfortable. When I woke up, I couldn’t move my arms.

I read in the park where kids were chasing each other in circles and a homeless couple was walking their dog. I guess they probably weren’t homeless. They sat near the pond and she put her head on his shoulder.

I made a pot of coffee and drank one cup.

I organized my shelf by books I have read and books I have not read.

I didn’t watch any TV.

I watched a little TV.

Sometimes, things can get so frantic you start looking for meaning in the frenzy itself. You start thinking that your work is important just because it’s painful. That’s what you tell yourself. That’s how you survive.

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