Brillig Toves'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe...
I must write, but I'm afraid I may have nothing to say. Will you read, see if I do? Maybe it will be useful after all. Don't know yet.
Perhaps my favorite thing about today was standing in the extrareal evening, sun shining through the trees on its way to setting, breeze perfect, the new leaves bright and naive in their greenness up in the trees. The kids were playing kickball, their greenness and naiveness also present, they not even aware of it. Watching them, some of my grown-up cynicism was stripped back and a bit of wavering innocence reappeared under the layers. Watching them, the magnetic rut had less pull on my mind, and for a few minutes, I stood in the dappling shadows, watching and thinking as though dreamed--suspended between my childhood and theirs, recognized by the children in neither.
Another me, more grown-up, also saw the man pitching. In grace and grace, he dispensed extra tries and non-outs and foul balls. The kids may not have really noticed, but in the little grace I saw a picture of big grace, though the little grace was imperfect.
This is my writing. I have been wanting to write for a long time. I keep not getting around to it. But every time I write, it's almost like making a painting, whereby I have the added benefit of the relief of not carrying around the picture anymore in my mind. The only thing is, writing is easier because you can redo it, which is dissimilar to a painting. :)
It is late and bedtime. Good night. Thank you for reading this far if you did. :)