I Shall Don a Black Beret and Write About Death.
|"Now," she said, "I shall write about Death."|
Then, on July 1, 2009, it got a little more interesting. I started an experiment. I called it "100 Days of Practice," and then spent 100 days writing about how hard and how easy it is to practice Irish flute every morning, while also being a parent, a spouse, a friend, a soul searcher, and a lettuce eater. (Have you ever had a CSA in June/July? A lot of greens, people. Dave. Seriously.)
100 days morphed into 365 days—prolific days, the archive suggests. We had some fun in those days, did we not?
But then at the dawn of 2011, I started a strange new venture where I went back to work full-time, got depressed about not being able to have another kid, then had another kid, then tried to start blogging about managing a house and working full time and being an artist and a parent of two and how it's pretty much impossible to do those things AND practice flute AND keep a clean house, and ... I had to stop. My primary writing critic at the time told me to stop writing so much about cleaning. Sheesh.
So, we breathe.
Then things fall apart. People die. Sometimes many people die in one year, and other people slowly disintegrate, all in one family. That's happening now. There's a lot to write about, there.
I suppose this blog is a testament here to how much can happen in 11 years. However, what this blog has really been about all this time, even in—no, especially in—the times when I haven't posted anything at all, is How Hard It Is To Do The Right Thing All The Time.*
We have a few more things to share about that, do we not?
So many events, so many words, so little time. So much dying. So now, darlings, I shall don my black beret. I shall write about Death.
My critic will be pleased, both with the depth and with the sartorial choices.