The Outgrabe

 7.1.2020 And then a thing is over. And I still don't know what's next. And I don't really want a next. I just want to stay, and sit, and relish freedom of an imagined eternal summer. In which the consequence of staying up all night is nothing more than a more tired next day with kids. And slowly, room by room, my space improves. And little by little, we heal, start to drink and eat more right things and less wrong things. And we find a way to live that is more than mere continued existence. In it we find joy, purpose, satisfaction, and answers to the stresses, the concerns, the unknowns. Because it's summer, and none of those things matter, and even if they do, there is time for mending them in this place between school and work and obligations. Oh, let summer stay. The endless mornings of sleepy dawns, cool breezes on books through open windows, children splashing water on glass sliding doors, misty mornings rolling into too hot, lazy afternoons of cool drinks, guiltl

5.25.2020  I was going to post to social media today, Memorial Day, because I feel inclined to add my own to the throng of posts about the day. Then I didn't. I made my own breakfast this morning after the boys had cleared up theirs, took some more time than usual to set up something nice for myself, enjoyed arranging it, took a picture, and imagined captioning it with something like this: Grateful today for the freedom to enjoy avocado toast and tea safe at home on this Memorial Day.  Maybe add some hashtags about remembrance, or thanks for those who served, or something, and soon the whole thing turned ugly to me, like it was this trite attempt to add something somber in a few words and a picture, a hashtag, and it felt incongruous and gross. So, I did not post this thought. There are a few things to unpack here. I also felt that the imagined weight of some people's negative feelings (ranging from minor to extreme/hateful) for the tendency some of my generational cohort have

 Do you have to be nuero-a-typical to access the greatest beauty in the self and create it? Does art necessarily create itself out of pain and an aching desire to create beauty or truth to soothe it? Can we be our best selves and also our worst? It is a paradox.

5.30.2021 Goodbye, May Hello, Today Full of words I didn't say ... What are you thinking And what do you wish? Asks none Of fishermen three ... And so tears slide Like silver fish For words that Will never be ... So write it and say it And let it all pour Over cuptops In tea-saucers Full ... We all just survive But sometimes we thrive In the teaming, intermin'ble sea ... So where are you going My silver-streaked dears And what will your Shimmering show? ... How to be How to thrive How to more-than-survive How to love How to laugh How to know.

1.26.21 Writing on Beautiful Things: A Cautionary Tale  I once wrote a river, a torrent, and song. I wrote it in leather, red bound.  In it was a story, a hope, a fear,  and joys never so truly found. And tossed in the basket, and put on the shelf, and carried about to and fro, the leaves were so battered, and tattered, and frayed,  and once washed, proceeded to go. So when putting into things  things you hope to keep, keep the place of their keeping with care. If you don't, you will find, after some careless times that precious things written  can soon disappear.  A Knife and a Wooden Spoon When considering holding a wooden spoon and a knife in one hand, and scrubbing them with a brush under running water with the other--don't. You are liable to stab yourself in the finger.  

 With the possible exception of the Peter Pans in Austin (and other cities that wish they were as restlessly youthful and strange), everyone does grow up eventually. Or rather, all people who live long enough enter adulthood do. The strangeness of it is something all the Chaim Potoks and Irene Hunt protagonists and Cassie Logans and Ramona Quimbys and Pi Patels and Jo Marches of the world still can't quite get across. They "came of age," but we don't spend too much time reflecting on the strangeness that is realizing you have entered that world of adulthood in which others see you as and expect you to be more responsible, resilient, prepared, and able than you were a few years before by the simple merit of time.  It struck me at some point post-high school, with a considerable shock, that the adult world was populated by people who, like me, won that position of power simply by being alive. And that I had somehow crossed over to the other side, now sitting in the judg