Not Doing
I'm not good at doing nothing, but I want to be. I'm a fidgeter, a toe tapper, a person with checklists written down in little books. Busy is good. I like it when I work—even if "work" is doing laundry, clipping rose bushes, calling my mom—but I don't know if a human being's only purpose is to get stuff done.
Lately I've been trying to do absolutely nothing now and then. Not reading. Not texting. Not tidying. Not watching anything or listening to anything. It's really hard—the hardest! Which must mean it's good for me. Nourishing somehow. To be quiet and look at things. Consider things. Sit and breathe. I want to be confident in the face of simplicity. I want to lay in a tube in the middle of a lake and do nothing more than look at the place where the trees meet the sky.
Blue Moon
As you may know, there was a so-called "blue moon" this weekend. Despite its astrological implications—its deep cosmic portend of high and wild emotion—this rare second full moon of July looked much like other full moons.
I think it was the heat, though, the moon combined with the heat on Friday night, that really stirred together like a stiff cocktail and made everyone summer drunk. No one wanted to stay inside. No one wanted to be alone. Everyone was out doing something, wearing shorts and shirtsleeves—sometimes less, everyone was sweating, talking, laughing, and acting disorderly.
I stayed up late. I drank cold drinks with limes perched on the rim. I rode my bike all the way to Lombard Street and back, winding down the quiet boulevards under the grand ole pine trees as their limbs reached out like elephant trunks and pumped oxygen up into the stars.
To August
August has its very own feeling. It's quieter than June and July. The summer ends softly, like a feather floating to the ground.
I am looking forward to the calm in which to read, to walk, to wonder, to do nothing at all. There's ripe tomatoes in my garden and I'll make a galette. Work-life balance will flow naturally. Contentment will be achieved. This is my plan for August. I wouldn't be me, though, if I didn't know that plans, like rules, have a way of getting broken ...
Thursday Happened
In regards to Thursday, it rained. Just in the morning, just for a minute. It had been so long since this happened though that at first I didn't understand. I just looked out the window wondering why the air look all strange and smudgey like that. Then I heard the noise—like pebbles on corrugated tin, and smelled the scent—like dirt and leaves and other forest mysteries.
In the same way that thinking about death clarifies your life, a nice rainstorm now and then—well it purifies that sunlight that's surely to follow.
Thursday Things
Work projects finally calmed down around here. My head's above water. My mornings can linger. At lunch the other day, I took the dog on a long walk in Forest Park. It was hot as F out in the sun, but not in there—in there it was all cool shadow and green light.
While walking, I listened to the Marc Maron WTF where he interviews Mike Watt from the Minute Men and found that shit to be inspiring—thoughts about growin' up punk, thoughts about music and what people want it to be and what it really is, thoughts about middle age, thoughts about loss and death. Mike Watt is a natural story teller with poetry of voice and vision. The dude is, was, and will always be a wizard.
Been missing my favorite mini ramp lately. As you may know, Bracewell (owner of said ramp) and his chick had their baybay (YAYYY!), and although procreation and the miracle of life etc etc trump skateboarding (or at least that's what they tell me), a girl still can't help but be missin' all those leisurely backyard sessions with beers and all the buds.
