I’m not the sort of person who can put an incomplete thought down in perpetuity. It makes me a terrible blogger; I lack the swagger. There’s a definite tension between the impulse that I have to communicate some ideas in this medium and the shyness that accompanies the permanence of the internet.
What I’m saying is this: people know better than to ask me to update the blog more, but when I see that people are using the blog as intended–actually reading it–I’m filled with a serious sense of inadequacy.
So it’s another Sunday evening, many Sundays away from the last chapter that I’ve read of any novel, especially a Certain Novel That I am Supposed to be Reading to Prove Some Point Maybe. The formula for writing is all here: a half-emptied glass of wine, my normal Sunday restlessness/insomnia, John Vanderslice singing about whaling ships. I thought I was in the mood, too; yesterday I was possessed by the ridiculous urge to buy a prompt-based daily journal, and so far, I’ve managed to keep it completely up to date. I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately, and thinking about the mix CDs we used to swap whenever we knew we’d be apart for awhile, and having positive enough thoughts about spring, and letting my hair get really long, and eating apple sandwiches.
But I’m not. Call it the weather, or a change of heart, or a shift in language–I have a scientist’s strange comfort with the use of the word “canonical”–but it’s just not there right now, and I don’t want to go looking for it.
Today I did go looking for some street art with a friend. It was so good to feel some sunshine on my face. It made me miss the ocean. I think I’ll buy a new swimsuit soon.
No Laws, You were my Fiji.