Diminishing Returns

My sister and I, when we talk, talk in the language of loss, of things that haven't happened, choices that should have been made.

We don't mean to, really. It just kind of happens.

I suppose it's who we are.

Admittedly, we were raised better than this. Raised to know our intrinsic worth. Somehow that's fallen by the wayside these days. Then again, these days have been tough to say the least.

Tonight, she's talking careers. The gist is this: there was a contract, not signed for good reasons. Or, at least for good reasons when it was in the offing. You work with all of the information that you have at the time. What else can you do?

A year or so later, she's second guessing herself: What has she lost in the meantime? Was it worth it? Is it better to do without? To hope for the ideal situation, the one that may never come? Or, when it does, turn out to be a disappointment like all the rest?

Maybe the best thing is to take what you can get and work within those parameters. To compromise.

I see myself doing that very thing.

I'm making minor adjustments, but they still add up.

Perhaps it's an issue of too much change all at once. For now, I'm content to see how it all plays out.

Passive, yes. But, an option all the same.

On writing

Too good not to share:

"The writer finds himself in this more and more comical condition—of having nothing to write, of having no means of writing it, and of being forced by extreme necessity to keep writing it."


—Maurice Blanchot

words, words, words

Here's how it works:

You add up the words, string together some phrases. All in an attempt to create some coherence, a form of narrative, a why this has happened. The beginning and ending are firmly in place. But, it's the getting from one point to another that matters. We exist in our stories.

After particularly harrowing experiences, my mother used to tell me, "but, think of how you'll tell it."

Good advice, indeed.

I spoke to an editor with whom I work yesterday. She's editing a project that started out online but is now becoming a printed book. Apparently, one of the people featured within its pages decided to opt out of the latter version. The idea of appearing in print was too frightening for him, felt too permanent.

It was refreshing to realize that these things do matter, that there is still some power in the written word.

I say I do it for myself, but, really, this is why I write.

When I do so, that is.

I'm still working on the writing itself. It's something that comes with time and practice. A little like learning to drive, I suppose.

And, I remember those days all too well, perhaps because they went on far longer than was necessary (or not nearly long enough, depending on who you ask). Just me and my father in the empty parking lots of Long Island, all of them covered with a thin dust of snow. His mounting frustration as I drove through the spots, taking short cuts. The constant refrain being, "do you know how many parked cars you would've just hit?"

Yes, but there were none there.

It's hard to argue against emptiness.

So, I'd wait, still in the driver's seat, staring into the warning on the side view mirror —objects are closer than they appear —until he told me to switch seats so that he could drive back home, the car's tires making strange patterns in the powder, tracing our path back.

Fair Usage

I'm on a Bob Creeley kick.

Here's why:

The Sentence

There is that in love

which, by the syntax of,

men find women and join

their bodies to their minds

—which wants so to acquire

a continuity, a place,

a demonstration that it must

be one's own sentence.

Ten degrees fahrenheit

It's bitter. Too cold to snow, even,
and I am drinking
far more than is advisable,
yes,

but, far less than is
necessary.

It's not as bad as all that.

Adaptive Strategies

I fake it really well.

What I mean is this: I say enough to retain the appearance of openness and honesty without having to sacrifice either. Call it an adaptive strategy, if you will.

When you have things to hide, you learn what to share. It's a trade. I'll give you this much; in return, just don't ask too many questions.

In comics, there's a term called closure. It refers to the space between the panels. You read what's implied, what you'd like. It's a way of moving the story forward without having to say much.

I'm not sure what it's called in life.

Day of reckoning. Or somesuch.

1. I got my box of honeybells in the mail today. This is in no way shape or form related to matters at hand, but they're only available at this time of year and were a pleasant surprise. [Even though I knew they were coming]. For that reason alone they deserve a mention.


2. Seriously, they're that good.


3. Notwithstanding my equivocations, I went. I'm still not sure it was a good idea.


4. But, it's done.


5. Time to move forward.


6. Whatever that means.


7. At any rate, I'm attempting to be direct and address things whether I want to or not.


8. Mostly, it's the latter.


9. But, it's happening.


10. And, in some cases, I'm surprising even myself.


11. It's a good thing, to be able to surprise yourself.


12. Maybe even others.


13. I'm tired now and getting nonsensical.


14. G'night.


15. Please note: that last point was added because I didn't want to end on an unlucky number even though I'm writing this in html so cannot see the numbers.


16. Apparently, I'm becoming superstitious.


17. I've also lost count of the numbers that I should be counting but cannot see.


18. And, I'm really going to bed now.