quick hit

Keeping ritual, there is a disbelief in making meaning out of the spontaneous bursted thoughts – tormented by an ever distracting present, a mind to go and help children make books in rural Washington for Spring Break, this would be a wonderful volunteer opportunity, to work with kids, to get them excited about their own ingenuity, to make them put their cell phones away, to remember their names, like Deacon, Sylvester, Lydia, Miracle, Osten (with an O) or whoever. Imagining names. Imagining a version of myself capable to act on such a thing. I’m afraid of offending, upsetting, or scarring (scaring) children, worried my own mind will turn inside out and the experience will fill the children with a fear of books rather than the opposite. Yet, I can be the monster they write about. If my experience and beard intimidate them enough.

Whatever the case. I need to begin acting on opportunities as they appear. To send in applications. To study the French. To live well and open-eyed through the flooding of sensations, the pricking of nerves, the glassy reflections across the way, the red hats and combat, book stores falling out of the sidewalk, spilling out, a drunk smokes cigarettes at the bus stop and we tell the children to look away.


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