Dear thought that pulled me by the ears out of almost-sleep at 1:45 a.m.,
I know: it's true, in the digital-virtual-internet world, there is not just one public, there are many publics--fractional publics, even intimate publics--and therefore, when we talk about publishing, we are talking about multiple forms of publishing, and this, this makes all the difference.
And yes: maybe I should write a series of essays about this. And maybe it should, maybe, be the first monograph that the Publication Center publishes. As a collaborative effort, because everyone will totally be on board with this.
Even so, stray thought that pulled me by the ears out of almost-sleep at 1:45 a.m., I just have to say one thing: 1:45 a.m. is so harsh a time to be having thoughts that aren't dreams. Even if you did, in fact, get me out of bed and writing it down. Oh yeah, I wrote it down.
But seriously: Kairos, dude. Think about it.
Dear the weekend,
As I flailed and outlasted the workweek--one of the more challenging ones so far, but not the most challenging, I'm betting, of this Infinity-of-Labors Semester--it was so good to realize that there you were, the weekend, right there in my pocket.
And did you ever feel good in the palm of my hand, when I woke up without an alarm on Saturday, and ate pancakes after working out, when I wrote letters to Scotland and mailed them, when I sent out a draft to my coworkers. When we went to the strangest movie, when we poked around in funny shops, and ate a delicious dinner at a new restaurant--the weekend, you were like an amulet, making things better. More cheerful, with better conversation and more relish. More laughter.
Tomorrow's Monday, but I won't forget you, the weekend, twinkling on the horizon,
Dear people making videos with your cell phones at a concert,
No it is not okay, not even remotely, to walk around the concert venue with your cameras video-ing away, getting closer and closer to the pianist, whilst recording for who knows what reason, for minutes on end. It's not okay! The pianist's being blind makes it worse, because it's as if you're saying, it's okay! she's blind, I'm not disturbing her.
Like you're little mice and not grown women, tiptoeing around in full view of the entire audience and the rest of the band, making a video as if you're Albert Maysles and this is the Rolling Stones at Altamont. But no: it's a little jazz concert, a little jazz trio, and everyone can see you, and it's distracting and rude.
Really, if I hadn't been on the verge of starvation and therefore in grave need of rushing out of the concert as soon as it was over, I might have grabbed you by the, whatever, flowy cardigan, and said how rude how rude how rude!
But I was too hungry, and also probably not chutzpah'd up enough, but people with your cell phones at a concert, listen up: sit down! listen with your ears! and DO NOT SIDLE UP WITH YOUR CELL PHONE BEHIND THE PIANO PLAYER, be she blind, be she sighted, to make a video.
Because it is just beyond, and you ought to know better,