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A year is such an odd packet of time. It seems so ordered: a dozen months, a handful of seasons. Deceptively even. Make no mistake, it will go awry every which way. Balance? Impossible. Control? Not worth mentioning the word. Some days cling and others run, many shifting just enough to incommode but give no great variety. And then out of the pedestrian blue comes an explosion which reduces all plans to smithereens. The reward for making it through? Getting to do it again.
When I weigh the last twelve months, I affirm my year tipped towards the good, which may mean I’m either a blind optimist or one who values the profound mingled with the absurd. Or both.
“Yes, well, I think we can both agree that damaged items still hold value.”
“My life isn’t always my preferred method, and yet here I am, day in and day out.”
Napoleon is said to have lost the battles of Borodino and Leipzig because he had dined in too great a hurry. What a warning!
“It’s one of the miracles Hawkes performs. He picks you up, dusts you off, and gives you whatever is needed before he disappears into thin air.”
“If you want quality, you must work for it. You wake and you strive and you make decisions to sacrifice. An easy life will never bring the kind of satisfaction the soul craves. I despise people who lounge all day as if there weren’t more important ideas than comfort, complacency, and appetite. Stretch yourself! Be industrious! Do something!”
There is a lightness that comes after truth is spoken plainly, and into that we leaned, conviviality surrounding our conversation as we entered the hall and removed our hats.
“There’s nothing worse than someone who would shrink their generosity for the sake of keeping what they want,”
