On Oct. 8, I started my writing-every-day-for-365-days project, which has evolved into writing OR working on compiling and refining a book of old and new writings. So far I’ve done one and/or the other every day, but as for the writing, I’ve had a lot of false starts, where things don’t go anywhere or I lose interest. Below are snapshots of a few of those days, things not worth posting here on their own, but that may add up to something more than zero. Lots of times I just stare at the white space on the screen.
Oct. 11
I went to Warby Parker and upgraded my glasses with what the young saleswoman called an anti-fatigue coating, something akin to a painted-on bifocal glaze that will supposedly help me to read and see things that are closer. “All your apps and socials and things,” the sales girl said. “Books,” I said.
And for some reason the store was full of them (books), nearly all of them with blue covers. I picked up and read the first pages of a Margaret Atwood book, The Year of the Flood, where page 2 begins “Beware of words. Be careful what you write. Leave no trails.”
That seems like sage advice for the post-apocalypse, and anything but what we need today.
So why the books, Warby Parker? Fascinating analysis of the Warby Parker brand (cliff notes: they have me pegged):
Oct. 15
Do you ever hear your inner voice telling yourself, “I’ve just got to make it through this week!” But the problem is, it’s Monday, and you said the same thing last week, and the week before that, and there are still thousands of weeks left in your future? This is me every goddamn week.
Still, time accelerates, as every person of a certain age knows, and so someday you’ll wake up and it will be your very last week. You might know it, or you might not, and blessed are they who see it coming, I suppose, but blessed, even more, are they who don’t.
Oct. 21
My father worked for the corps of engineers* designing dams across America. He loved his job, and he loved dams. In fact, he always told me I was named after a dam, but he would never say exactly which one. In the end, he never gave me a single clue and went to his grave without telling me. I guess I’ll always be left to wonder. -Adam Overland
A dam over land is really more of a retaining wall than a dam.
(*This is not true. My dad worked for the post office. Also, he is still alive. I was just trying to think of jokes about my name.)
Oct. 22
Worked on site, reviewed past writings.
Oct. 23
Ultimately, I am a coward.
Oct. 26
There’s that transitional time each year between the last of the leaves and the first brilliant snowfall, a gray that eats the light and keeps everything in a dull state until the bright white of winter reigns again. You can feel it coming down this week, hear it in the wind. The bleak gray of winter begins in Minnesota.
Oct. 27
The problem with the pursuit of happiness is that it puts you in the driver’s seat with the expectation of a chase. From our earliest days as little Americans we were taught that it was so—that happiness was something out there to be found, worked toward, pursued and, if necessary, forever searched for. And what’s more, it was up to each of us, as individuals, to find it. So it was declared.
But think of the moments in life where you’ve been happiest. How often has it been that you were sitting still? That its cause was something given freely, and came to you without much effort? Your grandmother coming to visit. A chattering chipmunk. A slice of pie. The sunshine through the screen of a tent early in the morning causing you to squint into the new light of a day where nothing is expected of you. A dog that shows you his tummy for pets. Someone who says I love you. Someone to whom you say it back. Happiness pursued is happiness forever out of reach. Sit still.
Oct. 28
Wrung out
The sky drips
A dirty wet dish rag
Slung over the faucet
Never quite dry
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