I
Time surprises me by doing the thing it has always done. On January Tenth, Twenty Twenty Three, I find myself even further away from the things I have not been considering or handling with care. In some cases, this was very intentional, and I’m relieved. In other avenues, this is cause for concern.
You have to pay attention. You have to choose, and you can’t choose everything. Time surprises us (catches us out) by doing what it has always done.
What new things do you desire? How are they different from this time last year? What would you like to draw closer?
What new elements seem available to you? What fell away?
How will you construct your day/week/month around the new knowledge?
II
On January Ninth, Twenty Twenty Three, I change my phone to grayscale, so it is not too interesting to look at. I have a life to get to, a Spirit to water, and I won’t get there by staring at one-minute videos of other people. Plus, it’s ruining my concentration; you need that to be a writer. It is easy to understand this intellectually, but my fingers keep doing the thing I am fighting against. My brain has made these slippery, unhelpful grooves, and I’m here to show it who’s boss. I start a new book and let new droplets of thought thrill me. I want more poetry in this lifetime, more people saying what they mean,
what we all mean.
It is deep in the afternoon. The day is blueing. I ask my love if her heart ever feels so full she could throw herself on the ground and weep with the unbearable weight of everything. She says, “No, not really.”
We laugh. You’ve got to laugh.
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