I'm reading all this old writing and realizing how much I lie to myself about it all. I always believe I'm just around the corner from getting this writing stuff right. I think I've improved. But then I read the old stuff and there are pieces that have this quality of wandering like unfettered paint strokes, smeared and strewn. Like powder and blush in the hands of a toddler. Dust flying everywhere and joy upon cheeks. I've been living an unsuccessful suburban life. I don't live in a suburb but I have the third row seats to get there. The kids do activities that are anytown things and I do too. Grocery store. Sheets changed. Soccer games. No cubicle at least but a near-nonexistent retirement plan. Yawnfest. But I was shaken back to myself. Back to the person who has an impromptu dance party and takes the kids into the cave they want to check out. I was reminded that I like to make leaf rubbings for the feel of the friction. I couldn't say where a single colo...
I ski, teach, parent, write, read, swim, adventure. I get lost in my own mind, chewing on words and images. Sometimes something good comes out.