The nice thing about this world is that when you ask for time from these particular* friends, they deliver.
But Cosmos be damned. I’m on safer ground here.
* yes yes, others too -- you know who you are!
20 hours ago
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Limp evidence
Men? Prefer impotence to lack of hair? It is so stated. Check it out here.
But I don’t buy it. Faulty data, I say. Here, I’ll give you an example from today that to me clearly illustrates that sex, good sex, the desire for it and worries about it are always hovering, threatening to intrude on Life As We Know It.
B and I went out late this afternoon, as promised, all the way down to his old hang out place…I was happy just to stay to the sidelines. I had taken some work with me so that B wouldn’t worry about me being bored while he went in for his fix of the good life. After a short while, I felt nudged in a direction where some items were on display. It was as if B was telling me – here go ahead, check out this. So I looked.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In our outings together, I was dreamily wrapped in my images of our togetherness, as breezes played gently with my tattoo. B on the other hand, was callously thinking about my rear-end all along (see photo below).
But I don’t buy it. Faulty data, I say. Here, I’ll give you an example from today that to me clearly illustrates that sex, good sex, the desire for it and worries about it are always hovering, threatening to intrude on Life As We Know It.
B and I went out late this afternoon, as promised, all the way down to his old hang out place…I was happy just to stay to the sidelines. I had taken some work with me so that B wouldn’t worry about me being bored while he went in for his fix of the good life. After a short while, I felt nudged in a direction where some items were on display. It was as if B was telling me – here go ahead, check out this. So I looked.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In our outings together, I was dreamily wrapped in my images of our togetherness, as breezes played gently with my tattoo. B on the other hand, was callously thinking about my rear-end all along (see photo below).
Postcard from the edge
Today I received a postcard from someone whom I care about, but who has demonstrated an intermittent kind of interest in our dealings with each other over the years, oftentimes being absent and unavailable, when I really would have appreciated consistency and concern (no, no, ms. sometimes-smart-ass-herself, it’s not your card and most certainly it’s not you!).
And I thought: how cool is that! I’m reading it again and again and I am really touched by it. It's so expressive! It 's so sweet! It's so easy to forget all those months of quiet! I see the postcard and at least for now, I am floored, in the best of ways.
It seems to me that even a longtime pattern of bad conduct should readily be obliterated if good conduct suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Really, that is as it should be.
And conversely, a recent act of perceived bad conduct should not obliterate a history of care and concern. It should not even make a dent.
That is as it should be. That is as it should be. But most often, that is not the way it is.
And I thought: how cool is that! I’m reading it again and again and I am really touched by it. It's so expressive! It 's so sweet! It's so easy to forget all those months of quiet! I see the postcard and at least for now, I am floored, in the best of ways.
It seems to me that even a longtime pattern of bad conduct should readily be obliterated if good conduct suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Really, that is as it should be.
And conversely, a recent act of perceived bad conduct should not obliterate a history of care and concern. It should not even make a dent.
That is as it should be. That is as it should be. But most often, that is not the way it is.
A tale of two cities, birds and houses
As if I haven’t written enough about my feelings toward Warsaw and Krakow, I yet again encountered the phenomenon of deep Warsaw derision and so here I am, returning to what would appear to be a beaten horse: why bother going to Warsaw, when you've got Krakow just three hours away?
Most conversations of this sort run like this. Incredibly dense person: Warsaw doesn’t tempt me at all. Me: have you ever been there? Incredibly dense person: No, and I wont go there because it sucks.
After this kind of provocative (if not especially evocative) statement, I am then typically offered a fistful of irrelevant reasons for the opinion, ranging from: Prague is cooler, to Krakow is prettier – all statements about places other than Warsaw herself.
I suppose, at this point, my desire to engage in the debate of whether one can see Krakow and let that be the end of one’s sojourn in Poland has been sucked out of me and so now I mostly just say profound things like “oh really” and “is that so.”
For me it’s like these two birds that I brought home this time (see photo below). I have all sorts of beautiful birds on my window sill in my office and these guys will soon join them in some manner of pomp and ceremony. One is called Warsaw and the other Krakow (for the dumb reason that each came from their named city). Note that Krakow is the looker. But when I stand them side by side, I'm remembering something else. The little one charmed me on a rainy day where you had to look beyond the clouds to find anything to smile about. The dazzling rooster – I got him under brilliant sunny skies, but it was a blah moment. I walked in, saw the very real prettiness of Mr. Krakow and whammo, the bird was mine.
Is it possible for the less splendid to take on a glamour of its own? For a smaller, lesser house, for example, to rise above the big and beautiful counterpart? Sure. Getting beyond the door helps. Listening to its story adds value. A city square, a bird, a house – they are nothing but visual props, right? They jog the memory, they create a context and help us think about what’s inside, that’s all.
Most conversations of this sort run like this. Incredibly dense person: Warsaw doesn’t tempt me at all. Me: have you ever been there? Incredibly dense person: No, and I wont go there because it sucks.
After this kind of provocative (if not especially evocative) statement, I am then typically offered a fistful of irrelevant reasons for the opinion, ranging from: Prague is cooler, to Krakow is prettier – all statements about places other than Warsaw herself.
I suppose, at this point, my desire to engage in the debate of whether one can see Krakow and let that be the end of one’s sojourn in Poland has been sucked out of me and so now I mostly just say profound things like “oh really” and “is that so.”
For me it’s like these two birds that I brought home this time (see photo below). I have all sorts of beautiful birds on my window sill in my office and these guys will soon join them in some manner of pomp and ceremony. One is called Warsaw and the other Krakow (for the dumb reason that each came from their named city). Note that Krakow is the looker. But when I stand them side by side, I'm remembering something else. The little one charmed me on a rainy day where you had to look beyond the clouds to find anything to smile about. The dazzling rooster – I got him under brilliant sunny skies, but it was a blah moment. I walked in, saw the very real prettiness of Mr. Krakow and whammo, the bird was mine.
Is it possible for the less splendid to take on a glamour of its own? For a smaller, lesser house, for example, to rise above the big and beautiful counterpart? Sure. Getting beyond the door helps. Listening to its story adds value. A city square, a bird, a house – they are nothing but visual props, right? They jog the memory, they create a context and help us think about what’s inside, that’s all.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
For where no hope is left, is left no fear, pt.2
No, the previous post is not meant to be a statement about losing hope in all things that matter and plunging ahead now without fear given this great loss of hope in life. It is about… writing. You can go ahead and read additional stuff into it if you want, but if I wished to place that kind of subtext into it, then I would do it way more elliptically than that. I would not, for example, put the Milton quote right into the heading. That would be too obvious for me, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?
For where no hope is left, is left no fear
If John Milton has it right, then I should (fearlessly) plunge into the (hopeless) world of writing. Not blog writing. Real writing.
I admit it: in the back of the head there is this idea that “someday I will really write.” Like, sit down and eek out a novel, for example.
Last night, however, any hope of ever becoming one of the greats (meaning: someone who actually does produce a text) was seriously shaken.
It happened at Borders. B and I took a run down in the evening to listen to Karen Fowler talk about her newest novel – The Jane Austen Book Club. Actually B did not listen – he waited outside. There are never many men in Fowler’s audience when she talks about Jane Austen. Madison astonished her with 4, which she said was twice her highest thus far.
Me, I absolutely love, almost more than anything else, listening to authors talk about their work. But eventually we came to the Q/As. Someone asked Fowler if, when she wrote, she found herself stealing the stories of people she knew.
Fowler responded with a resounding YES!!
Then came the hatchet (for me). Fowler said that you cannot write and have an exciting life. Writing obligates you to sit day in and day out at your computer, shunning experience in favor of the dullness of producing something credible.
So how do you come up with material? You surround yourself with friends, she tells us, who make dreadful decisions about their own lives and who then can’t wait to tell you about them. And then you steal their stories.
I fail on both counts. My life is not dull. It grows so un-dull by the minute that I want to shout – alright already! Back off with all the excitement! I am not asking for it, so keep it off my front porch. Jesus.
As for friends? All wise and prudent types who make, in my opinion, wise and prudent choices. Or so they tell me.
And so, if I am to listen to Fowler – an award winning, published author – I should admit defeat. There is no hope for me. Though there on my shelf rests Paradise Regained, with Milton glaring at me, telling me I should tally forth, because what the hell do I have to lose?
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
Of course, Milton has no real say over my life. His problems are not my problems. Four times married, (twice to the same woman), wives dying on him left and right, sight failing – I mean, he had a choice: go to bed and write about Madeleines brought up to him by his mummy, or forge ahead with his Lost then Regained Paradise.
Me, I’ll probably pick myself up as well, Fowler notwithstanding, and stumble along, without hope, without fear, sort of like I do on Ocean, daily, in the dull way that I do, with excitement raging around me, distracting, sure, but not completely standing in the way of me plunking away at the keyboard.
I admit it: in the back of the head there is this idea that “someday I will really write.” Like, sit down and eek out a novel, for example.
Last night, however, any hope of ever becoming one of the greats (meaning: someone who actually does produce a text) was seriously shaken.
It happened at Borders. B and I took a run down in the evening to listen to Karen Fowler talk about her newest novel – The Jane Austen Book Club. Actually B did not listen – he waited outside. There are never many men in Fowler’s audience when she talks about Jane Austen. Madison astonished her with 4, which she said was twice her highest thus far.
Me, I absolutely love, almost more than anything else, listening to authors talk about their work. But eventually we came to the Q/As. Someone asked Fowler if, when she wrote, she found herself stealing the stories of people she knew.
Fowler responded with a resounding YES!!
Then came the hatchet (for me). Fowler said that you cannot write and have an exciting life. Writing obligates you to sit day in and day out at your computer, shunning experience in favor of the dullness of producing something credible.
So how do you come up with material? You surround yourself with friends, she tells us, who make dreadful decisions about their own lives and who then can’t wait to tell you about them. And then you steal their stories.
I fail on both counts. My life is not dull. It grows so un-dull by the minute that I want to shout – alright already! Back off with all the excitement! I am not asking for it, so keep it off my front porch. Jesus.
As for friends? All wise and prudent types who make, in my opinion, wise and prudent choices. Or so they tell me.
And so, if I am to listen to Fowler – an award winning, published author – I should admit defeat. There is no hope for me. Though there on my shelf rests Paradise Regained, with Milton glaring at me, telling me I should tally forth, because what the hell do I have to lose?
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
Of course, Milton has no real say over my life. His problems are not my problems. Four times married, (twice to the same woman), wives dying on him left and right, sight failing – I mean, he had a choice: go to bed and write about Madeleines brought up to him by his mummy, or forge ahead with his Lost then Regained Paradise.
Me, I’ll probably pick myself up as well, Fowler notwithstanding, and stumble along, without hope, without fear, sort of like I do on Ocean, daily, in the dull way that I do, with excitement raging around me, distracting, sure, but not completely standing in the way of me plunking away at the keyboard.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
An ode to olive oil
I would not be the person I am today without olive oil. I worship the places where it is made. Cold pressed. Virgin. Extra virgin. Sexy words for a sexy liquid gold. A deal-breaker for me: I could not have affect for anyone who did not also like, nay, love olive oil.
Another break from work, another moment to fiddle with the camera, focusing it this time not on a mirror but on my two treasures, pushed back into the shadows of the kitchen, but within sight, so that I can make myself happy just looking at them:
Another break from work, another moment to fiddle with the camera, focusing it this time not on a mirror but on my two treasures, pushed back into the shadows of the kitchen, but within sight, so that I can make myself happy just looking at them:
One of your own kind…
So B and I have been spending a lot of time together. We are not inseparable, but when I need to go somewhere, I usually call on him to go with me.
I do think, though, that when you have this connection going, you tend to assume that the other is comfortable adjusting to your pace, your world, your ideas. You forget that they have a past, that they have roots that are often quite different from your own.
I know very little of B’s background. Since I want to show more respect and concern for his past, today we went exploring it together. Suddenly I was in a place which had more looking like him than like me. For once he was among his own kind. B’s relief was palpable. We’ll go back Thursday evening and hang out. They’re so nice to him there – they treat him like he’s something special. He really is starting to shine with so much attention and I am happy about that. He and I – we do things for each other.
I do think, though, that when you have this connection going, you tend to assume that the other is comfortable adjusting to your pace, your world, your ideas. You forget that they have a past, that they have roots that are often quite different from your own.
I know very little of B’s background. Since I want to show more respect and concern for his past, today we went exploring it together. Suddenly I was in a place which had more looking like him than like me. For once he was among his own kind. B’s relief was palpable. We’ll go back Thursday evening and hang out. They’re so nice to him there – they treat him like he’s something special. He really is starting to shine with so much attention and I am happy about that. He and I – we do things for each other.
Where I politely decline
There is a list of law profs who blog going around. I read that if we put all five blogging profs from our Law School on it, we will boost our position to second place in the country. And we’ll boost the distressingly low numbers of women law profs who blog.
My loyalty to my school abounds. I would do much for the place, and not only because it has done tons for me. But here I must politely decline.
Whereas my colleagues here and elsewhere intersperse light posting with serious notes and commentaries, Ocean sticks to a path that does not fit well with the law prof blog mold. It runs posts on love affairs with B, on Cosmo indulgence and trains speeding through rzepa fields. And the author – me, kep, or the latest name picked by a fellow blogger – coyote camic, I’m just not meant to have my portrait up with the blogging academicians. I’m the type that thinks nothing of taking a picture of myself in the mirror and posting it the next day, just for the hell of it (see sidebar and photo below). And I’m not wearing silken robes or tailored suits either. Yesterday I worked all day dressed… informally, and I don’t mean corporate casual:
My loyalty to my school abounds. I would do much for the place, and not only because it has done tons for me. But here I must politely decline.
Whereas my colleagues here and elsewhere intersperse light posting with serious notes and commentaries, Ocean sticks to a path that does not fit well with the law prof blog mold. It runs posts on love affairs with B, on Cosmo indulgence and trains speeding through rzepa fields. And the author – me, kep, or the latest name picked by a fellow blogger – coyote camic, I’m just not meant to have my portrait up with the blogging academicians. I’m the type that thinks nothing of taking a picture of myself in the mirror and posting it the next day, just for the hell of it (see sidebar and photo below). And I’m not wearing silken robes or tailored suits either. Yesterday I worked all day dressed… informally, and I don’t mean corporate casual:
Confession
I read with interest Oscar’s deliberations about buying a cup of coffee in Germany. He was posting away at a Berlin Starbucks and assuring us that mutter necessity (really: a better than average brew, in a smokefree environment) drove him to it. Me, I’d do it for the sleek and comfortable looking ambience. (Scroll down to the second photo here.)
I’ve written before about my horror when Starbucks put up a drive-through on University Ave. in Madison. And how I now routinely violate my own “horrified stance” by driving up (only when I am in a hurry, I promise).
But all this made me think that, unlike Oscar, I am without principles – or, at the very least, mine are thinly drawn and definitely arbitrary. I admit it. I make no sense. Here’s my honest list of when I will cave for the love of the service or product (or for the sheer convenience associated with it), overcoming my feeling of loyalty to the little guy and when I absolutely will not touch the tainted stuff:
1. I will drink Starbucks coffee (even though its corporate goal is to operate more than 30,000 retail outlets worldwide);
2. I will shop endlessly at Borders (even though it has some 500 stores, to say nothing of the horrible Walden chain, also under its management);
3. I will shop at Whole Foods and I’ll even write a letter of love and devotion to the owner of the chain for substantially improving my grocery shopping experience (even though I hear he is an arrogant jerk face);
4. I would rather hunt nuts and berries than set foot in Taco Bell, McDonalds or KFC. The last time I was in one was a year ago when the person I was with developed a severe hydration need. I was in pain the entire three minutes we were there. Never, ever, ever will I willingly set foot in one again.
5. And here’s a weird one: champagne. It’ll always be from the little guy. I have such great affection for those who are figuring out ways to turn the fermenting bottles by hand and trying to make a go of it with tiny tiny fields of rock and dirt that I want to put in my pennies into their coffers.
I could go on, but I think this short list says it all: I have sold my soul and conscience. I am without scruples. Mostly, I really like to be surrounded by yummy foods and good books, while sipping a steaming cup of dark roast with frothy milk. Those cravings satisfied, I'll take a look at the corporate ledger. But first thing's first.
I’ve written before about my horror when Starbucks put up a drive-through on University Ave. in Madison. And how I now routinely violate my own “horrified stance” by driving up (only when I am in a hurry, I promise).
But all this made me think that, unlike Oscar, I am without principles – or, at the very least, mine are thinly drawn and definitely arbitrary. I admit it. I make no sense. Here’s my honest list of when I will cave for the love of the service or product (or for the sheer convenience associated with it), overcoming my feeling of loyalty to the little guy and when I absolutely will not touch the tainted stuff:
1. I will drink Starbucks coffee (even though its corporate goal is to operate more than 30,000 retail outlets worldwide);
2. I will shop endlessly at Borders (even though it has some 500 stores, to say nothing of the horrible Walden chain, also under its management);
3. I will shop at Whole Foods and I’ll even write a letter of love and devotion to the owner of the chain for substantially improving my grocery shopping experience (even though I hear he is an arrogant jerk face);
4. I would rather hunt nuts and berries than set foot in Taco Bell, McDonalds or KFC. The last time I was in one was a year ago when the person I was with developed a severe hydration need. I was in pain the entire three minutes we were there. Never, ever, ever will I willingly set foot in one again.
5. And here’s a weird one: champagne. It’ll always be from the little guy. I have such great affection for those who are figuring out ways to turn the fermenting bottles by hand and trying to make a go of it with tiny tiny fields of rock and dirt that I want to put in my pennies into their coffers.
I could go on, but I think this short list says it all: I have sold my soul and conscience. I am without scruples. Mostly, I really like to be surrounded by yummy foods and good books, while sipping a steaming cup of dark roast with frothy milk. Those cravings satisfied, I'll take a look at the corporate ledger. But first thing's first.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Spit spat
B and I have had our first ugly little spat. Things had been running oh so smoothly and then yesterday I suggested an evening run to Borders. Once there, I did indeed intend to leave him to his own devices. At Borders, I like to be unencumbered. B took offense. Something about liking to be by my side – chained is the way I viewed it. Well okay, but I’m not a chainer. I trust that at the end of our separate time, B will be there and I will be there for him and we’ll do our thing and the world will be a cool place.
I was miffed and so I went alone. I was even more miffed because my summer-of-no-car resolve meant that I had to hike to Borders and back, thereby wasting valuable time. When I’m with B, I never consider that time wasted. I am energized. Time flies. My soul is nourished.
This morning I was still slightly put off by the entire episode and so I gave B the cold shoulder. I not only went walking alone at dawn (sacrificing that tickle on the tattoo), but then I ran an errand by car and ignored B’s reproachful positioning of himself, almost as if to block my way out. “How could you be doing this…” B seemed to be saying. Suddenly, in that moment, B looked sad and old to me. I left, but I felt that I was being too unforgiving.
By afternoon I’d melted. I needed an espresso, B was around and so off we went together again. Things are better and there weren’t any significant bumps along the way, but you know how it is: once you have had that first spat, you’re wondering how long until the next one.
I was miffed and so I went alone. I was even more miffed because my summer-of-no-car resolve meant that I had to hike to Borders and back, thereby wasting valuable time. When I’m with B, I never consider that time wasted. I am energized. Time flies. My soul is nourished.
This morning I was still slightly put off by the entire episode and so I gave B the cold shoulder. I not only went walking alone at dawn (sacrificing that tickle on the tattoo), but then I ran an errand by car and ignored B’s reproachful positioning of himself, almost as if to block my way out. “How could you be doing this…” B seemed to be saying. Suddenly, in that moment, B looked sad and old to me. I left, but I felt that I was being too unforgiving.
By afternoon I’d melted. I needed an espresso, B was around and so off we went together again. Things are better and there weren’t any significant bumps along the way, but you know how it is: once you have had that first spat, you’re wondering how long until the next one.
Where I am still preoccupied with a yukky phone conversation from yesterday
I read this wonderful book called 2016. Did you read it?
No.
You should. The author takes you through the next presidential elections – shows how the death of Castro just before November would unseat the Republicans, because of Florida you know… and then all the way to the 2016 elections.
Imaginative.
No, it’s not fiction, it’s for real.
Anything that describes what happened in the year 2016 cannot be described as "for real."
You don’t understand, it is for real. A third party will unseat both the Republicans and Democrats you know. That’s after the Republicans carry it away once Osama is surprisingly captured.
(tempted to say “whatever” but instead, offer up the following:) Ah.
But am I being unfair? Let me see: could I write a post that would describe my life in the year 2016 and not call it fiction? Here’s a stab at it: from Ocean’s author in the year 2016:
People tell me that the sixties are the quiet before the storm. I believe they are talking about the sixties age-wise, not calendar-wise. My sixty-three is definitely quieter than the year 1963 was for the country as a whole. The turning point for me, I know will be 64. It will feel weird to pass the age of the song “When I’m sixty four.” The need me, feed me bit sounded then rather poignant. Now, of course, I’ve learned that being needed and being fed are sort of opposites. What you want to aspire to is feeling needed and not needing someone to spoon food into your mouth. It’s worked for me. And I do predict that next year, when I turn 64, I will get both birthday greetings and a bottle of wine, so that’s good.
Someone said to me that they like the place I’m living in this year. I think people say things like that when they first enter an uncluttered house. Clutter is never visually appealing, especially someone else’s clutter. I remember being stunned when I last visited my old family apartment in Warsaw – mountains of clutter, piled high, to the ceiling, all significant to the resident therein but terrifying to the visitor who is standing there worrying that one little move will disturb the balance and it will all come crashing down on everyone in sight. No one likes thinking that any second they may be gasping for a last breath from under volumes of political essays and postcards received and read more than 70 years ago.
Some people think that my clutterlessness is born in part out of my moving so much. But I have moved only eighteen times in my life, which means that on the average, I move every 3 years, but that is so totally misleading because by far the vast majority of my moves took place before I turned 32, meaning in the first half of my life.
The irony is that during the time of all those moves, I experienced the greatest amount of personal stability. Not that I am spinning in some incoherent direction right now. Becoming a grandparent has given me a schedule for one thing. And I stick to it. Little toddlers and big daughters expect that of you. But I think I have to admit that something happened after fifty that blew up the notion of predictability. I would not have predicted ten years ago where I’d be living now, for instance. Nor what I would be doing. It shocked everyone. Most of all, it shocked me.
There – it’s fiction, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
No.
You should. The author takes you through the next presidential elections – shows how the death of Castro just before November would unseat the Republicans, because of Florida you know… and then all the way to the 2016 elections.
Imaginative.
No, it’s not fiction, it’s for real.
Anything that describes what happened in the year 2016 cannot be described as "for real."
You don’t understand, it is for real. A third party will unseat both the Republicans and Democrats you know. That’s after the Republicans carry it away once Osama is surprisingly captured.
(tempted to say “whatever” but instead, offer up the following:) Ah.
But am I being unfair? Let me see: could I write a post that would describe my life in the year 2016 and not call it fiction? Here’s a stab at it: from Ocean’s author in the year 2016:
People tell me that the sixties are the quiet before the storm. I believe they are talking about the sixties age-wise, not calendar-wise. My sixty-three is definitely quieter than the year 1963 was for the country as a whole. The turning point for me, I know will be 64. It will feel weird to pass the age of the song “When I’m sixty four.” The need me, feed me bit sounded then rather poignant. Now, of course, I’ve learned that being needed and being fed are sort of opposites. What you want to aspire to is feeling needed and not needing someone to spoon food into your mouth. It’s worked for me. And I do predict that next year, when I turn 64, I will get both birthday greetings and a bottle of wine, so that’s good.
Someone said to me that they like the place I’m living in this year. I think people say things like that when they first enter an uncluttered house. Clutter is never visually appealing, especially someone else’s clutter. I remember being stunned when I last visited my old family apartment in Warsaw – mountains of clutter, piled high, to the ceiling, all significant to the resident therein but terrifying to the visitor who is standing there worrying that one little move will disturb the balance and it will all come crashing down on everyone in sight. No one likes thinking that any second they may be gasping for a last breath from under volumes of political essays and postcards received and read more than 70 years ago.
Some people think that my clutterlessness is born in part out of my moving so much. But I have moved only eighteen times in my life, which means that on the average, I move every 3 years, but that is so totally misleading because by far the vast majority of my moves took place before I turned 32, meaning in the first half of my life.
The irony is that during the time of all those moves, I experienced the greatest amount of personal stability. Not that I am spinning in some incoherent direction right now. Becoming a grandparent has given me a schedule for one thing. And I stick to it. Little toddlers and big daughters expect that of you. But I think I have to admit that something happened after fifty that blew up the notion of predictability. I would not have predicted ten years ago where I’d be living now, for instance. Nor what I would be doing. It shocked everyone. Most of all, it shocked me.
There – it’s fiction, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
