Monday, February 04, 2008
They Pick Us
Printed out all my blog entries the other day and if I stand on them, I gain four inches in height, as much as I would with a pair of Manolo Blahniks, but without the wearing pain of such footwear. I have about twenty subjects, all cheery if the following sample is to be trusted -- sexual violence, keeping faith in a fallen world, the dead. I joked to a friend the other day that I should host a show; it could be like the newlywed game, except it would be the newly dead game and the questions wouldn't be light-hearted romps about funny little quirks. Instead they'd be grim sad realities about what we miss and cannot get back.
Seeing all those entries in black in white was a tad off-putting as I started the task of organizing them into a more coherent essay form. But I often think of Raymond Carver, about how he contended that we don't pick our subjects, that they pick us. So I feel like I did when an obviously mentally-ill dude yelled at me, I know who you are. Yeah, you girly. Fuck you. I had not addressed him or done anything except walk down the street, and yet there he was, in my face. My subjects are much the same way -- rude, obnoxious, and disturbing. But I recognize them all the same and have come to love them because even though they're not always kind, they always know me and there's something to be said for being seen.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
“Courage is as often the outcome of despair as of hope; in the one case we have nothing to lose, in the other, everything to gain.” Diane de Pointiers
Drinking memoir suggestion: Her Last Death Susanna Sonneberg
Benedictions and Maledictions