I have a problem: Most times when I sit down and dig into a fine piece of nonfiction (tonight: Robert Sullivan’s A Whale Hunt), I invariably pick up on interesting uses of writing and then feel the need to immediately put them into action for myself. It’s like watching someone skydive and then having no other thought than to jump out of the plane.
Anyway. The itch to create. It’s real. I’m sure you know this.
Here we are, as it were. Haven’t written here in a short while.
Lots of stuff in action this week. (I’m already re-imagining the intro to my upcoming Scene feature after just a dip into Sullivan’s stuff.) But, listen, I’m heading west on Saturday for a spell. Like New York City in January, I feel a certain impending gearshift with this trip. This one is less about my place in this world and more about my place within my own life. The timing here isn’t great, and by all accounts I shouldn’t be getting on a plane this weekend. Money’s tight, and there are a lot of moving parts here in Cleveland to which I need to tend.
But there’s a weird pall hanging over this city for me at the same time. I skip town a few times a year, and I’ve landed at the precipice again. Gotta go babble with a brook or two. Make friends with trees. Drink tequila with a lifelong buddy and let a few moons wash over my soul.
“The function of man is to live, not to exist.”
Floor it. May has been good — new projects in the works, new people I’m getting to know, new ideas to flip alchemically into reality — and I’m thrilled at the prospect of crashing through the horizon this summer. Here’s the latest message I received today from a good friend: “PS: The cool thing: WE’RE JUST GETTING STARTED.”
Sandy 