Every hour I was wondering, "would this be the hour where all the spinning plates fall?" and I would race from classroom to office to the library to another classroom to the coffee counter to the telephone to the glassed-in media-services booth in the remotest basement corner of the library back to the anesthetizing planes of flourescent-lit whiteboarded, desk chaired classrooms wondering, "now? will they all fall now?".
So it made sense that after letting the eastern ohio farm peppered foothills unspool around us for an hour, dropping the kids at the Coshocton County Fair for a weekend with their grandparents and cousins, and a nice spicy Lamb Rogan Josh with Aloo Paretha, I would promptly fall asleep in front of the movie we rented instead of being able to relish an evening alone with Lynn.
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What's Going On In This Blog
When Lynn found her great grandfather's diary, many of the entries read:
Dug Coal. Rained.
I suppose if my world demanded such work in such conditions, I too, may have grown terse.
Dug Coal. Rained.
I suppose if my world demanded such work in such conditions, I too, may have grown terse.
On the other hand, the artificial imposition of Two Sentences A Day seemed like exactly what's needed to satisfy my yearning to archive the daily flow of life.
To bookmark particular sensations and experience.
To leave a scar that I can return to be assured that I really was alive back then:
My life really did happen.
So for the last year I wrote two sentences a day.
These days I'm re-reading to see whether the archival urge and the reflexive urge together can do anything to heal my soul or shed insight across a tiny sliver of the world...