Monday, January 10, 2005
A play in three acts.
Act I
In the dog park this morning there was a little dog like the end of a mop, only its hair was finer than that, and it ran around in circles, so anxious for the other dogs to play with it, but they just munched grass. So it rolled around in the wet leaves. I feel like that sometimes.
Act II
This morning I woke up and felt the absence of the ocean like a loss of oxygen. I realized it's because enough time has passed (a week+) that it's gone from being an impression (live, raw, visceral, on my skin, in my gut) to being a memory (conjured in my head, a vision). The ocean is a block away, the ocean is a block away - it stops working after a while. I crave the presence of nature in every fiber of my being - a sky full of stars, a deep forest, a tall mountain, something to anchor me and remind me that the world is vast. In nature's presence I touch something bigger than a single day can usually hold.
{I am so sick of office politics. The way they drag you down. Why are people so small.}
{I wrote about twice as much as I posted about Hotel Rwanda, but I deleted it...I was developing a whole thesis about how art can inspire outrage, which can inspire people to hold their governments accountable, and to create more art that inspires more outrage...but it wasn't saying what I meant, and it was 9:30 on a Saturday night, and my husband had waited patiently, and it was time to go before Saturday night was just typing on my laptop.}
Act III
Drinking tea, my dog curled up at my feet, purple chenille blanket, the hum and hiss of the heater. It should be enough. I should feel the abundance of my life. But gratitude can be elusive. Some days you're in it and some days you're outside, and I'm starting to think there's nothing you can do about it, other than accept that moods come and go, like the tide.
In the dog park this morning there was a little dog like the end of a mop, only its hair was finer than that, and it ran around in circles, so anxious for the other dogs to play with it, but they just munched grass. So it rolled around in the wet leaves. I feel like that sometimes.
Act II
This morning I woke up and felt the absence of the ocean like a loss of oxygen. I realized it's because enough time has passed (a week+) that it's gone from being an impression (live, raw, visceral, on my skin, in my gut) to being a memory (conjured in my head, a vision). The ocean is a block away, the ocean is a block away - it stops working after a while. I crave the presence of nature in every fiber of my being - a sky full of stars, a deep forest, a tall mountain, something to anchor me and remind me that the world is vast. In nature's presence I touch something bigger than a single day can usually hold.
{I am so sick of office politics. The way they drag you down. Why are people so small.}
{I wrote about twice as much as I posted about Hotel Rwanda, but I deleted it...I was developing a whole thesis about how art can inspire outrage, which can inspire people to hold their governments accountable, and to create more art that inspires more outrage...but it wasn't saying what I meant, and it was 9:30 on a Saturday night, and my husband had waited patiently, and it was time to go before Saturday night was just typing on my laptop.}
Act III
Drinking tea, my dog curled up at my feet, purple chenille blanket, the hum and hiss of the heater. It should be enough. I should feel the abundance of my life. But gratitude can be elusive. Some days you're in it and some days you're outside, and I'm starting to think there's nothing you can do about it, other than accept that moods come and go, like the tide.
