I went out for two hours. I came back after five.
Somewhere between the first picante and the third round of food, I forgot I had a blog to write.
I have written every day for 42 days. I was not going to let good conversation be the thing that broke it.
So here I am. Two picantes in. Racing the clock.
Some days the writing is profound. Some days it is this.
Forty-two days in, I'm not sure I know the difference anymore.
We have the image wrong. Still waters, we say. And we picture the quiet one. The person who holds back, who doesn't fill a room, who gives little away. We mean it kindly. There is more there than meets the eye. But depth has no dress code. Some
You know it's there. You put the phone down anyway. Barthes wrote about the one who waits — how waiting is never neutral, how it transforms the person doing it. He was thinking about lovers. He might as well have been thinking about this. The ten seconds before you
She hears the dogs before she hears the car. They live on the abandoned property at the end of the lane and they have decided, without being asked, to take responsibility for the silence. Before that, birds. Not the ones there used to be — the singing ones, who arrived at
The first cup is optimistic. The second cup knows better. You make it anyway. Not because the day has turned around. Or something shifted or clicked or resolved itself quietly while you weren't looking. The day is exactly what it was. You are exactly where you were. Kettle.