No excuses, but I must admit (and desire the acknowledgment that): teaching turned out to be quite the time-absorber. I have been neglecting everyone and everything but my students, with the exception of horrifyingly (and probably worrying) heavy drinking on the weekends. With friends. Ah, an effective use of sentence fragments, I hope. My return is prompted by my sister's beautiful writing and blog, as well as a need to articulate myself with words unspoken. Writing offers a reflection that speaking or simply thinking cannot.
Although, as for the reflective process, what I should probably do is purchase one of those giant sketch pads from Walmart, the kind that are to be placed on the floor, on-top of which children on hands and knees create masterpieces made of multicolor finger-paints, crayons, and markers. On those plain, expectant, and inviting sheets, I should write how I actually feel. All of the disgusting, shameful thoughts and deeds of the past should be chronicled--not for posterity, but for some sort of actualization and true digestion, away from the manipulation caused by internet accessibility. Jonathan Safran Foer, while speaking at my college's yearly Summer Common Reading in the fall of my freshman year, made a remark about writing and one's inevitable self-consciousness while doing so, throughout the whole process. Even when you're sitting on a bench writing, completely self-absorbed, the moment a person walks by, or your mind stumbles onto the thought of another person, your writing is instantly affected. I believe that. Hopefully, my Crayola floor-pad writing will be exempt from such altering. Some pages will have large letters, the width of a page, shouting truths and finally announcing lies. Others should be adorned with letters whose sizes crescendo, from meek beginnings to trumpeting endings, ellipses and improperly placed semicolons highlighting truth and a somewhat un-welcomed cognizance.
Writing all of this makes me feel quite self-absorbed and important. I know, however, that I am not. I just said "I know I'm not important" (about two or three minutes ago) to my heaven-sent (I like the imagery that common descriptor can conjure) roommate and flight philosopher Dana. Not in a pity or pouty way. This world is very big and I am a silly little dot. The earth is just a pale blue dot, right?
Right now, Harmonica Man is moving souls and enhancing my life with his smooth melodies, which he plays over top of prerecorded harmonies, every Sunday. An accidental tradition that I hold so dearly. Such a small gift must be rare--I am not remarking on the size of his talent, but the gift that he (and the universe) give me every week. I cannot imagine that many people nor places get to experience the absolute charm and joy that a man, and his take on creating, like I do.
Well, okay.
