I can't sleep…
The older I get, the less tolerance I have for affectation or insincerity in all things. It is why I am drawn closer to nature, family, and tradition. Give me the earnest, the true, the real.
— Ryan B. Anderson, @Old Hollow Tree, October 26, 2024
DK Photo. Sunrise. 7:32 a.m. October 27 2024. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.
What do we need to know about a person in order to like them? Before she wrapped her leftover buttered toast inside a paper napkin, I didn’t know whether I liked her or not. Then, when she wrapped up her toast in the napkin, I suddenly loved her. Before she wrapped up her toast, she had been making an effort to show herself to be a sophisticated and an impressive young editor from a respected magazine. Then, when she did that, the performance dropped; not only was she underpaid, the gesture said, but she really liked toast. She liked toast even more than she liked being admired.
~ Sheila Heti, Motherhood: A Novel (Henry Holt and Co., May 1, 2018)
Portrait: Sheila Heti
It’s 6:38 pm and I’m rushing across town to catch the 7:12 at Grand Central.
It’s 6:38 pm. I note the coincidence – I boarded the 6:38 am morning train, must be some significance in that. Or absolutely none at all and you are delirious.
The thought evaporates like mist and the mind shifts to The Feet. Still 75 minutes from home. The skin has been scraped raw off both heels from new shoes – I wince with each step. How about a few shots of Novocain Doc, hit me. Inject a few blasts in the forehead and let it slow drip, down the bloodstream, relieve the weight from the shoulders and back, and let it settle in my feet, just camp out right there.
The day ended with a semi-social event. Whatever marrow is left, is being sucked out of this introvert’s bones. A career development event for twenty high potentials. I step in the restroom a few minutes before the session, splash cold water on my face, and look. There’s me in the mirror. Thinning hair, and this is kind. Gray. Bags under the eyes, a raccoon Shoulders slumped. Suit rumbled. And they’re looking for some secret sauce from you? Try, please, try, not to repeat yourself. Try not to curse. Try not to be too authentic. Continue reading “Walking Cross-Town. With Marrow.”
