"Help yourself," we say to each other. It's meant to be a polite invitation. "That food looks great," someone says. "Help yourself," we reply. It's a perfectly polite thing to say, but it's also funny, if you think about it. It could be taken differently, I guess. Someone could take it to mean, "Don't hold your breath waiting for me to serve you, lazy ass. You've got two hands. Get your own damned food." That's not what we mean, but it's a funny saying. "Help yourself."
I am back on the train this morning for the first time in eleven days (no insensitivity intended for my New York friends who are without transit this morning). It feels like home, although it's pretty empty with so many people off for the holidays. I'm especially happy to have my writing time restored. Sitting to write for and hour or more in the morning and then again in the evening is such a luxury. I've developed a real habit of writing for this context, and it's a unique discipline for me. I am typically a fairly obsessive observer of details when I speak with people, watching for minute reactions and the nuances they communicate. Talking out into this slow darkness, this soft, grey cooperation of minds that makes our medium, is a refreshingly and dangerously different sort of conversation. There is a risk that, having no cue to tell me how you feel about what I say, I'll lumber over delicate places, into forbidden places or off into obscurity. It's rather like performance, I suppose, except that the performer is typically blinded by the lights that focus all others on his or her stage. I am so much more interested in your part of this conversation than my own. I try to stimulate thought, to create a context, to break the proverbial ice, but these are just means to the desired end of your visitation and participation in this dialogue.
But talking about talking is an exercise in vanity, I suppose. King Kong and Jack Black. Holiday plans. Gift wishes. The Chronicles of Narnia. Things are happening out there, though I'm certainly not the best person to list exhaustively what's up in the world. What's up with you?
Later. Love.
P.S. - I posted a short piece on my cogito writing site. It's called Seed. I like it. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.
