22 February 2007

dear tomorrow,

(and those of you who stalk my blog)

so, i checked out and laid low and have been so utterly confused about what i ought to be doing at least since mid-december. i quit my job and took lots of naps and pretty much had a warrenesq "great sleep". working two days a week and counting pocket change. spending money mostly on coffee, postage stamps, and calling cards.

waking up in the afternoon, or falling asleep then.

sending out resumes, making phone calls, dropping in on establishments that might want to hire me. i swear there's some look about me that makes them smile and say, "no, no thank you. we're all set."

in any case. i wouldn't usually write a first-person post. but i have THREE interviews tomorrow... one for a job that (i think) i really want. join the dark side. become a journalist. alright, alright, in very good company including certain very dear former roommates and my most beloved dead authors (camus, hemingway). even dreamers have to live. and being a starving artist isn't all its cracked up to be.

i promise not to sell my soul.

it is crazy how long it takes me to act. how much i've really had to be pushed to the edge. how many times in the last month i have just struggled against God wanting to shout "what are you doing with me?" so confused. thinking i'd laid everything down only to find the next day that i certainly hadn't.

and finding myself in an inexplicable slump in which i have existed without writing, without music, without much thought, with as much escapism as a few good novels can provide.

so: hello again. i think i'm ready to be alive. please pray for me. and as always. my love and prayers to each of you.



Here's an idea
Let's grab this life and wring its neck with joy
So that when it comes time to die
When we find we have no breath left
It is because we willingly strangled ourselves
With love
Fell down dead
And mostly happy


14 February 2007

existentialism on quaker lane

how quickly the road falls away before you, conscious, suddenly, of every breath, of your feet inside your maryjanes, your hands inside the wide wool knit of your mittens, the shape of your heart in your chest.

what is this hidden dread, and where does it hang, catching you as you drive? as close as your clouded breath, this winter morning, as sharp as the sunlight gilding the icy power lines, as loud as the quivering engine shaking into life.


a twitch upon the thread

I've always been bad. Probably I shall be bad again, punished again. But the worse I am, the more I need God. I can't shut myself out from his mercy.
Evelyn Waugh