Open letters and whatnot

Dear you,

Your name completely escapes me, but you've long deserved a thank-you.  We were never friends, oddly enough, but the point really is that you told me about Yiruma, which is a big deal now.  There was a time relaxing contemporary piano music would not have been my thing, but (excuse the quote) it is not this day.  In all seriousness, his music has been a blessing to me, and it's largely due to your mentioning him I recognized the name and bothered to listen.  Thank you for spreading the word.

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Dear blog readers,

Thank you for sticking by me all this time.  The dilemma of blogging hasn't gone away - let's face it, I have in many ways outgrown all that is gold - but sooner or later it will all be sorted out.  Meanwhile, it makes me glad to know there are people reading it (I have looked at my blog on bloglovin', so I know who some of you excellent people are), and getting something out of it.

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It's almost two a.m.., so apologies if any of this is incoherent.  I spent most of the day cross-stitching and listening to political commentary.  I have not cross-stitched in ages and eras, so getting back into it this past week is a bit shocking mentally.  It is like repetitive games; the level of intense focus and, at the same time, freedom to think about other topics is remarkable.  I recommend cross-stitch kits, with reservations: they are incredibly addictive.

I haven't blogged about writing since February.  You might have wondered, what's up with that?  I don't know.  I don't know what's up with a lot of things, but it's ok.  I still work on my novels, if infrequently.  In fact, my main book in progress is coming up to the scene that inspired it.  (Silly, but I ought to have written that part first!  It won't be too different now, but surely not as good...)

It is best to blog about real life as objectively as possible, the good and the bad equally.  Anyway, I have blogged before about sadness, so hopefully it is not ostentatious to say that things are really good right now.  And I'm extremely happy, the kind of down-to-earth giddy happiness that seems like it could never be divided up or put into boxes - infinite happiness. 

It should be unsettling, having doubts and concerns about things in my life (like writing).  Sometimes, though, there comes the ability to just smile at uncertainty; you can even say, does it matter?  Marcus Aurelius (the only philosopher I am qualified to quote) had a Stoic notion for that.  His idea is that hurt (or to broaden the concept, negativity) does not exist unless you allow it to.  Of course this is idealistic and simplistic, but sometimes - more often than not - it is practicable. 

Well, I'll let that train of thought fizzle out, because it is by no mean the origins of happiness, and I wouldn't want it to appear that way.  Perspective helps, though.  It's not everything, but it can catalyze real change.

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Surrender Spring

There's no internship waiting for me at the end of this quarter.  Another noisy note to the tune of be careful what you wish for, one of the many trends life keeps referring to, over which I ponder and remain confused.  Summer Plans exist in a fizzled-out form, with cooking and coding at the geographic poles.  They present a guide book to follow, which, coupled with movie theater Met encores, might steer me through summer sluggishness to the other (not greener) side that is autumn.

Inside, It keeps nagging.  It leaves an absurd trail through months, and over years.  Disconnected suggestions are easy to ignore until you see they all mean the same thing.  It doesn't matter whether your closest friend or closest rival leaves the window down, since you are compelled to roll it up again.  I notice the temperature every time.  But when will I give up the easy answer? and is it worthwhile to find the other one?

I take it to heart, I really do.  My personality is empathetic for a reason.  And it is obvious to recognize obligation only accounts for so much.

Spring is the perpetual heartbreak, so it must be given up.  Every year these months flirting between spring and summer borrow winter's classic, empty glare and wear it for my benefit, just me alone.  2011 I treasured it; last year we parted slowly, in some ways like 2010.  A piece of it stays all year.  The formula repeats itself, and you can go a long time in this way, stitching up enough decades to build a spring-struck life.  I certainly will, unless I surrender spring.

Writing it is not doing it, writing is not even promising it.  Writing simply acknowledges that spring permeates everything, all through the twelve months.  Only It proposes to clear a path that will outsmart springs' wily, racing footsteps at my heels.  It displays no guarantees, however.

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