Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Pleased to Have Nothing to Report But Much to Say

I'm going to write one of those pieces that start with, "I don't really have anything to say..." I generally dislike reading those and you probably do, too. And so, if you want to go ahead and skip this then you can. Occasionally I plan what I'm going to write about, I write drafts on paper and I edit and add photographs and work so hard to impress you but not today (I have one in my drafts folder that I've been working on for weeks but I can't guarantee that I'll ever post it). This probably won't impress you at all.

It's not that I don't have anything to say, though. It's kind of like how right now I'm sitting at the dining room table in front of two large windows that face the north. So I'm not blinded by the sunshine that's coming up (I've been awake long enough to see the sun rise). I get to see how the sun shoots through the leaves and lands on tree trunks and reflects glittery through the storm windows and how everything else still looks dark and damp from last night's rain but there's so much yellow, honey sunshine. It's like that--it's like how there's no way for me to take a photograph of it that would let you feel it the way that I am when I'm seeing it all unfold and rise and change and there's no way that I can write about it that would let you actually visualize it. So it's kind of like, "what's the point in even trying?" But the point is that there is something incredible happening and moving and changing and it can't be ignored. And on top of that, it happens every day and it's nothing special except that it is. That's what it's been like inside of my brains.

Once, when I was in the second grade, I remember being so sleepy that when I went to bed I fell asleep instantly and when I woke up I hadn't moved at all and it didn't feel like a night had passed. Hardly even a minute. Then, a few weeks later, we were reading aloud from Little House on the Prairie and almost that exact same thing had happened to Laura and it was probably the first time that a piece of literature made me think, "I can completely relate to this feeling." I mean, now I can't stop feeling that way when I read but that was the first time. I only bring it up because I've been so excruciatingly tired lately. I was not a very good hostess last night when my friends were over. I more or less kicked them out of my house using my razor-sharp lethargy. I didn't even wait for the door to close before I was turning off lights and on my way to my bedroom. And then it was suddenly morning. I woke up refreshed at 6:15 and made a pot of coffee and instead of pouring cream, I poured pineapple juice. I'm not going to tell you what to do but I wouldn't advise that. I wasted two of my favorite beverages in one fell swoop.

So, then I sat here at my table, watching the sun rise and feeling thankful to the internet for alerting me to the fact that Matt Nathanson has a new album and if rent wasn't due this week and if I didn't need to buy grown up things like electricity and gasoline and cat food, then it would have already been impulsively downloaded. I've listened to Faster about half a dozen times.

See how this post wasn't really worth much to anyone but me? Unless you like sexy songs, in which case I'm happy to jump start your ordinary Tuesday on a delightful note.


Katie Hurl said...

I like sexy songs. Who doesn't? (And unfortunately, I typed "snogs" instead of "songs" before I went back to correct it. Maybe I should've just left it. I mean, who DOESN'T like sexy snogs?)

I just ruined the beauty of this blog. I took a Picasso and threw dog food at it.

I am sorry.

Libby Marie said...

Absolutely not, dude. It was self-proclaimed not-important anyway.
Kind of like a bank statement envelope that you doodle on when you're bored.

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