This is usually the sort of morning I might go over some notes, or revisit unpublished drafts, in an effort to spike some sort of creative fix into the vein, but this morning everything seems slightly gray and slack. Part of this is because I already wrote up a SXSW preview for Chicagoist, but another part is probably due to the fact that the book I'm currently reading is taking a lot out of me. I picked up Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking on a whim a few weeks ago. I had heard a lot about the book, and it seemed like something I could digest pretty quickly for my 52 Books in 52 Weeks project (that I have already fallen behind in completing, but I am confidant I will regain my stride when summer hits).Whoops, what a mistake. Seeing as how it concerns how Didion dealt with the death of her husband John Dunne, I should have known it might dredge up some residual stuff about how I dealt with my own father's death a few years ago. And how I guess I'm still dealing with it, even if it's not always on the surface. It is always there, bubbling underneath, waiting to snag a tear from my eye, or hitch my breath in my throat, whenever I least expect it.
This has of course also led me to reflect on my life, its progress, my accomplishments, past relationships, hopes for the future, possible roads to take, and all that jazz. The irony is that it has brought up a lot of topics that I want to write about and explore, but it's brought so many of them to the surface at the same time I'm having difficulty sifting through and deciphering which thought need to be unspooled first. Weird. It's kind of like I don't have enough material because I have too much material.
Sometimes I wish I could be more like the kids below and live in the moment, instead of constantly reflecting upon the meaning of the moment, and the following moment, and all the ones that came before that.
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