Compost

And here is an excellent example of the type of writing I’d like to be. She’ll laugh, sputter, turn red, and protest. I will just gently poke her (metaphorically speaking, of course) and prompt her to just take the compliment. 55 Fridays will be up…today. If not soon…

Be Less Amazing

Everyone carries with them at least one piece to someone else’s puzzle. — Lawrence Kushner, Honey From the Rock

I

Before. The pen is aces and the paper’s snowy-crisp, but my hand is cramping because everything flows by like a river, and I can’t catch it. Which is kind of the point. Notebooks force you to slow down. You can’t describe everything, anyway, and it’s good to remember that.

Carpal tension aside, it just feels better. And you do notice things you might never, had you been bent over a screen. Like the man in the black sweater, collar of his rose-colored dress shirt (interesting choice, that — I want one) peeking out. He’s got a silver swoosh of hair, X-ray specs ad glasses, and an impressive scowl. He’s reading a screen, not typing, and whatever it is, it’s either Terribly Serious or he’s mastered the poker face. Twenty-first…

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