the bastards' last stand

Despite my attempt to apply (negligible) pressure to my writing, I have found that the expectation that I publish regularly is not the same as expecting quality writing. Or that I follow my plans as I sit to write. I have been planning to write the same piece for weeks now, but continuously find something that seems more "current"; I've got reasons. This has been theoretically annoying, but surprisingly gratifying in practice. The last piece I wrote about my mother was the third most read piece on my blog within two days. I'm always touched by the opportunity to share my love for my mother with the world. I realize that I write better with some time pressure, and waiting until the day I'm supposed to post to write adds that. It also makes it easier to rely on my ad hoc make the road by walking style of writing: is it intellectual laziness or an invocation to my favorite muse? I wrap myself in my faith at her feet. That I continue to have questions about my approac

i do need that time, though, for naoko's face to appear. and as the years have passed, the time has grown longer. the sad truth is that what i could recall in five seconds all too soon needed ten, then thirty, then a full minute-- like shadows lengthening at dusk. someday, i suppose the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. haruki murakami, norwegian wood Yesterday was my birthday, its number is irrelevant to this writing. I don't usually celebrate my birthday, beyond a moment or two of gratitude for being alive. Prior to her death I saw the day as a time to say thanks to my mother for the life, love, and effort that made each consecutive year possible. Her death made it acutely difficult; her absence and the evolution of grief, the cycle of missing and remembering amplifying the hole of her absence as I tried to detail the source of my gratitude was too much. What had been for years a public acknowledgment, an invitation to all I knew to raise a glass to the woman w