Monthly Archives: January 2019

Well, that was more than I expected.

In the wake of a small detailed post regarding my Capistrano swoop back to the blogosphere, I found myself spilling, messy. Why I was withdrawing, why writing was so important, why I no longer felt that way. It was in between tweets and threads, reflecting upon how travels and visits in Boston were like stolen breaths under a leaden pall. The breathing, the questions, did not belong. The sense of  “We are resigned to this. You never resigned. Be quiet or get out.”

I had come in, and wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. So much was dying, and for real. The things I loved were gone. (Only things, but still.) The leaves were gone, just a heathered grey tree line. The aging of people, accelerated by fearfulness, and visceral struggles. Just lasting was a statement.

And so when old friends and friendly colleagues asked, in simple passing, why I was choosing to do different things, was it the demands of the kids, or some other thing, I spilled, everywhere. And even though I was typing, with mostly flexible hands, where keystrokes are choices, it was spilling out. Lament. Regret. Avowal.

I would like to think that the new year will bring positive developments, but I am not sure. Progress is work, and a family is not additive, it is exponential in its demands. January, I am here with two short drafts and (mostly) good grammar. I’ll think a bit more later.


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dust and stories

There’s a lot of dust here. Bagless vacuums are going to get tested. But there’s a clean chair for you, and a spare set of readers if you need them. And some coffee.

I haven’t gone through the full set of drafts – any of them – and there’s something deliberate as opposed to the offhand, data-loaded posts I’ve given to fb for the past few years. But if FB was a way to get the writing muscles working, I can say thank you and switch gyms.

The picture I’m using is 7 or 8 years old. The rakish white stripe has spread. And when I look in the mirror and see the thin wispy sheets of white, like scrim, I feel old. More on that and the other factors that lead to the feeling of vulnerability and our gelatinous existence later.

I am not working for money. The kids are now old enough to find things on Social Media, so they are explicitly off limits unless they give informed consent. (Learning about informed consent begins at home.)  Let’s share some stories, though, and have a cup. I missed you here.

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