Abe's pissed and Milo is blind with jealous rage, but I'm enjoying a weekend of Barley bliss. His ears are the central source of my bliss...and maybe of all bliss in the universe.
Running through my neighborhood, I found an epic hopscotch game—yellow and blue and pink and orange stretching 343 squares into the distance, each with a distinct shape and carefully designated number. As I ran along side it, I thought about the time and care involved in such monumental hopscotch, but mostly I thought about the thrill of that first square, kneeling down and looking out at never-ending sidewalk, wondering and delighting over how far it might go. I ran up to Tucson Boulevard and then turned around to pass by the hopscotch again. Weaving around the chalk lines, I decided that it was time for me to start writing again, to start writing and to mean it. About every six months I grab my Ferris Bueller diary and make a solemn vow to write on a regular basis; I write something that seems stirring and important, and then I forget about it for another six months. It’s never really that stirring or important, but it’s the act, the practice, the moment of kneeling down on the sidewalk that I miss, and maybe even need, in my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment