9 December 2011

December 9, 2011

When I was learning to drive, my dad said not to use high-beams in the fog, even though I’d want to. Fog is reflective, he said. You’ll just be shining light in your own eyes.

My dad also showed me how to take pictures without film. You stand in the pitch-black, let your eyes adjust to the darkness, flash a camera-flash, and there, temporarily burned on your retinas, is a photograph of the room. If you blink, it’s gone. A biological Polaroid. Magic.

If you bite wintogreen mints in the dark they spark blue.

I bought a new copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek today. Mine had markings in it. I wondered who had made them. Why would you underline half a sentence, a single phrase, the word “chomp”? I didn’t care about these sorts of things back when I bought the book, seven years ago. Has it really been seven years? I guess not actually, it’s only been five. I’m trying to remember if these markings are my own.

Back then, I’d thought this book was dull; now I can’t put it down. In five years, I’ve learned to appreciate boring things. I put green-olives on my pizza. (Every couple hundred million years, the poles of the earth reverse.) I used to listen to rock n’ roll; I used to watch action movies; etc.

Let me tell you what I’ve accomplished this week: . . .

I was thinking this morning about how everyone is a workaholic, we just define work differently. Sometimes people say things like, “If you love what you do, you won’t have to work a day in your life.” But that makes work sound like it’s a bad thing. Maybe we should just say, “If you love what you do, great, congratulations, good for you.”

It was foggy today. I couldn’t see the tops of buildings. I thought about all the people up in those buildings and how they were probably thinking, “It’s foggy today. I can’t see the street.”


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