12 Hour Meeting

I don't know how much I'm going to say, or how much I can even expect to say in the state of mind I'm in. It's almost like being drunk. I have been in meetings for the past 12 hours. At noon I joined Treasure City for it's twice yearly pajamaroma, which was a meeting that continued through 7:30--when I left to go to Whalefall. At Whalefall, we met for another four hours. At midnight, it was finally over.

Midnight is now. I am tired. Tired in a way I haven't been in a long, long time. My thoughts are lurching. I'm struggling to hold my head up straight, and involuntarily I find myself lurching forward and then pulling back. I'm like that guy in the back of the bus who's nodding off, but jerking back to wakefulness at every bump. Only I'm entirely awake. My head is just going through the same motions.

In the room beside me Blake is playing Sigur Ros, loud. I hear it, and it makes these moments dramatic.

Heh. . . .

I am the old farmer standing leaning against his hoe, gazing at the great clods of earth he has turned. Damn hard day. But something will come of all this talk. We are changing. We. . . .

I can't seem to communicate anything. Maybe I really do have ADD. (I never realized that spelt "add.") Whenever I start writing about a new subject, it excites me and I get my focus back. But after I write about it for a while, I'll begin to drift off and say things that don't entirely make sense. There's some point that's been left behind, buried beneath the ellipses. It's an avalanche of periods, and the tiny village under the mountain now lies in ruins under the weight of collapsed thought.

Yikes. It's happening again.

Maybe we get meta because it's the only interesting thing left to talk about.

I would like to write about my day and the meeting, but it's dead. It's over. I have no heartstrings tied to the past. But, I'm still curious. What will happen if I try. I must try. I will try.

Scott and Ann live in a cottage, for lack of a better word. It's built out of brick, with gleaming windows and all the luxuries of modern design. But there's something quaint and cozy about the space which makes me think of a cottage huddled warmly within a snowy landscape. The front yard is alive with greenery, though, and cultivated with the careful touch of a gardener's hand. As I pulled my bike up their driveway, I found over a dozen bikes sheltered beneath the carport. I recognized Rachel's green fixxie beside the others, all the bikes of my colleagues.

Inside, I heard Cory talking with James. I could see Paul through the window. When I tried to open the door, it was locked. For a brief moment I was worried there'd be a scene. I was fifteen minutes late. We're they going to open the door for me, and I'd find them all sitting the living room, quietly staring at me with disapproval?

A moment later I heard Scott call out, "Sorry! Let me open the door real quick!" As he opened the door, he gave me one of his toothy grins and explained that they had to lock it. I nodded, not really understanding, then scurried inside. There were a few people sitting in the living room, and Simon and Chrissi looked up to flash me a smile before returning to their conversations. Others were in the kitchen preparing breakfast, I walked over to them to deliver the polenta I'd prepared before coming. Nobody seemed to care that I was late, and as soon as they saw the polenta, there was no question. As I removed the aluminan foil lids, I found the polenta was still gooey, though. I grimaced disapprovingly, but still had hope that it would firm up before people started eating it.

. . . .

Well, the quality of the writing is starting to slip. Maybe it's time for me to wrap things up and call it a night. Before I do, though, I want to mention that there's something growing in my writing. It's not there entirely, but it's starting (in places) to gain a sheen of sincerity. I want that to continue growing. I'm convinced that the best way to develop this trait is to read expository essays, get a sense of what sincerity sounds like, and then recognize it in your own work. And push, gently, towards incorporating more of it into your writing.

Yikes.

Goodnight.