Monthly Archives: May 2013

Stymie

I wanted to post something more here, but WordPress/safari/iPad don’t seem to want to cooperate. El sigh.

false start

So I just wrote several paragraphs of continuation to the story that I began in my previous entry, and then I decided not to post them. Maybe I will later, but on the other hand, maybe it would just be walking back down a familiar road (a story I partially told in my previous journal, in 2007, about events that transpired in 2006). Perhaps all I need to say about that springtime stay in A-land boils down to a few sentences.

I did not, by and large, enjoy the trip. Everyone who was there and everyone else to whom I’ve spoken at any length about it (2-3 people) knows that. However, like other experiences both good and bad, I learned from it. So what did I learn? One person later told me that I learned the wrong lesson. I disagreed with that conclusion, but did grant that it was a lesson I didn’t want to learn. One inarguable truth is that the experience changed me and, thus, contributed to making me who I am today. Of course, many other times, places, people, events and experiences also went into making me who I am–but I feel this particular week of my life played a bigger role in the process than did most other periods of that length or even a good bit longer. Hopefully, by exploring more of my actions, thoughts and emotions during a period of years both beforehand and afterward, I can gain a better understanding of myself, as well as stimulating thought and even external discussion about topics that matter to individuals and to us all.

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exterior

So, that story I was talking about…

It “begins” on a pleasant spring day in a faraway country whose name starts with A. No, not that other faraway country whose name starts with A where I’ve been spending a good bit of time in recent years. Visits to that A-country are strictly business, whereas I’m here in this A-country, on the opposite quarter of the Earth’s surface, ostensibly for pleasure.

I’m out on the balcony of a small apartment in the city that a few of us have rented for a week or so. I feel the light breeze, see the pedestrians and intermittent automobiles (it’s not a very busy street), hear snatches of conversation–but only barely, since I’m several stories up. The setting should be conducive to a state of calm and relaxation; however, I can’t easily find those feelings. I had walked onto the balcony because I didn’t know what else to do. It gave me, if not exactly a relaxing feeling, at least a helpful sense of space and relative solitude.

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In Medias Res

I have a story that probably isn’t almost finished. I’ve been writing, sporadically, in either this blog or my previous one for close to eight years, and I’ll probably continue to feel the urge to put pen to paper (ok, fingers to keyboard) here and there for a long time. I do feel like I have a start of a story that, in a conflicted and inconstant way, I want to tell. I’ve at least figured out where I want the story to start. It won’t proceed chronologically, nor will it take a page (frame?) from Memento (otnemem.com doesn’t exist anymore?!) and begin with the ending. No, this true tale will begin in what I could plausibly call the middle.

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