Thank god for procrastination. Without it I’d be successful to the point of boring myself with faux melodramatic episodes. I’d believe I couldn’t do any better since what I’d achieved was more than most people ever dreamt.
Translation: I should be working on my writing. But what’s the point, I sometimes giggle, of stretching your longbow if the arrow’s the size of a dart?
Or to put it another way: What’s the point of wearing a wetsuit when your own skin is just fine. Or what about this: Some days I just don’t want to do what I have to do.
Responsibility. Where in the evolutionary scheme of things did this monster rear its ugly head? Was the fish responsible for the amphibian that crawled on land? Or was the amphibian responsible for the fish it left behind? Was the ape responsible for the man who walked away from the tree? Or the man responsible for the ape he left hanging?
I think responsibility became important only when the evolutionists and the creationists had to decide which was more likely: nature or divinity.
And responsibility has been torn, bruised, and dislocated ever since because humanity can’t decide who it should be more responsible to.
In such light, my hesitancy seems well-balanced, I think.
The People Who Grinned Themselves to Death by the Housemartins. Phenomenal, timeless album, even after 20 odd years. And listening to it on vinyl only adds to its beauty. It’s northern soul. And now I want to go and listen to the Beautiful South and maybe even get an earful of Fatboy Slim.
The Good Thief by Hannah Tinti. Great swashbuckling tale that takes place in a New England of farming towns and whaling ports and features a one-handed orphan who takes up with a charlatan. It’s a quiet read with no fancy narrative tricks or big ideas, but Tinti is a fantastic storyteller who spins a gothic adventure full of memorable characters.