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2006-01-21 I haven't written here out of superstition that writing seems to lend itself to self-deception and delusions when I least need them. I end up looking through metaphors like awkward, heavy goggles. The truth is I feel at a stand-still. A still life of stone. If I wasn't weighted down I would have left at the first urge, the first blow of the wind, out of town. (What Foer's character Oskar calls 'heavy boots' maybe.) I'm not sure that this perpetual state of being here is a veiled sense of maturity or me in the maturing process but growing pains are taking place. Maybe you have to have a variety of small heartbreaks until to find joy and even flow. (I think I'm homesick for a place that's changed too much for me to even recognize it as home (and it scares me to death).) |