Things haven't been that great here. They seem to be increasingly more pressing, stressing, stretching mostly in the mental and emotional sense. That's when need to the write the most. That's also when I feel the least like doing it. But I need to kick aside the apathy and listen to the little voice inside and allow myself to get things out on paper or screen. I can't hold it all in. I can't hold it all together by holding it all in. I have to let go.
I have to write.
It feels trite, the obligatory candle-in-the-dark pic invoking the idea of vigils and solemnity, attempting to express our sorrow. I'm shaken.
This week has been rough. But all that proceeded seemed trivial in the face of the tragedy that unfolded in Newtown, Connecticut today. Twenty-eight people lost their lives, in an elementary school not much more than 45 minutes from my house. I was at work, checking the news as I do as a distraction from the boredom of processing paperwork. I watched the story grow more horrific, from potential accident to full-out massacre...as Christmas music- with its call for cheer, peace and goodwill, softly played in the cubicle in front of mine.
"They're babies!" a lady in the other side of the room said as the death toll rose: one to twelve to twenty-four to twenty-seven. "They're just little babies!"
"I'm sorry," another said, "I need to step away." She's the mother of a young child.
All I can think of is the parents, the parents who lost a child. "You'd rather have your legs chopped and your arms chopped," said another co-worker in reference to the anguish a parent would endure in place of having their child suffer. We watch the news reverently, the broadcast flip-flopping between a national team and a local one. Their familiar faces reminded us that it happened here, this time it is literally close to home.
I think of the little kids, I know, the little kids that did come home from school today. The little kids who are safe. The little kids who today will get an extra hug or seven and not fully understand why. I think of their joy, their innocence...how scared they must have been.
I think of the brother wrongly accused, making the longest drive of his life from New Jersey to Connecticut. "It was my brother," he told a fried as he set off. And I'm moved to tears.
I can't imagine.
You may know that I went to Phoenix over spring break to visit a friend. It was a conglomeration of firsts for me. I wanted to keep some of the favorite bits in a book of photos similiar to the one I made a few years ago for the family. Like that book that was some near hair-pulling moments, sadness at the exclusion of photos that just didn't fit, but also several instances of that sort of magic and small (imaginary) choral 'Ahhh!' when things fell into place particularly well.
Above is a preview of most of the book. It should be mine by the 14th of next month. I'm pretty excited.
Now that school is done (and therefore my job is, too) I have more time to read books that I want to read. So that meant a trip to the library. I picked up The Hound of the Baskervilles (because new Sherlock revamped that...and I've read none of the Sherlock Holmes stories) and Ladies and Gentleman, the Bible! Turning around I saw the spiffy spine of the book in the post picture and had to get it. The cover is gorgeous, reminiscent of old cloth-covered books from decades ago that often have well-worn pages and scribbles in the margins. But it's new! Never mind that Oliver Twist is 400+ pages and Dickens. I am the first to check it out! All of this filled me with a fair bit of bibliophile happiness.
Dare I say: Take that, Kindle!
