A little something

"I write because I so deeply want to speak. Though writing only gives me the full measure of silence...." Clarice Lispector

305: an anthem in progress

-Where we come from, renewal is a constant possibility.  The palm tree sheds her fronds whenever she wants to; not when the calendar says so. 

-Where we come from, the grass is wide, waxy, and unapologetic; it stands in regular conversation with the ocean. 

-Where we come from, the grapefruit tree grows thorns so strong and proud they look like branches.  She invites you to climb them like stairs. 

-Where we come from, it is impossible to know when the night will smell like jasmines or salt or both; it urges you to pay attention.   

-Where we come from, still fish live for a long time at the bottom of the ocean. 

-Where we come the rain falls thick and hard; it roars, demands applause, baptizes at will. 

-Where we come from, the squirrel hides nothing; it eats mangoes in the summer and tangerines in winter.

-Where we come from, even the roaches  fly.  

In Saunders land tonight

Hearing young voices sing everything from Bernard Ighner's Everything Must Change to opera; leafing through Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum's Ms. Hempel Chronicles; and stumbling upon many things Saunders.

His viral speech

His many google-able quotes: 

It seems to me a worthy goal: try to create a representation of consciousness that's durable and truthful, i.e., that accounts, somewhat, for all the strange, tiny, hard-to-articulate, instantaneous, unwilled things that actually go on in our minds in the course of a given day, or even a given moment. 

Perception and Distance

"....But parents and children can only go after each other-not with each other.  And so an abyss lies between us, which, now and then, nothing but a little love can span."  Rilke

Nit Picking

Nit picking, an expression whose etymology always felt familiar, but never close.  I know and love many perfectionists.  I have admired their passionate commitment to every detail and recoiled at the ease with which they judge.  

Now, it is my son, me, and these tiny cemented lice-to-be vessels.  Here I understand for the first time the intimacy of this dynamic.  Together we pause as I pull these minuscule objects out of his hair one by one under the light of an October sun.  We smile and bid farewell to each invader.  

Diligence becomes a new word we share.  

I feel a renewed gratitude for all those nit pickers I love so much.