Chrisonomicon
Journal & Weblog Write to Save Your Life August 31, 2003

Booklog

Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs
My mother is standing in front of the bathroom mirror smelling polished and ready; like Jean Nate, Dippity Do and the waxy sweetness of lipstick.

East of Eden by John Steinbeck
The Salinas Valley is in Northern California.

The Straw Men by Michael Marshall
Palmerston is not a big town, nor one that can convincingly be said to be at the top of its game.

Vineland by Thomas Pynchon
Later than usual one summer morning in 1984, Zoyd Wheeler drifted awake in sunlight through a creeping fig that hung in the window, with a squadron of blue jays stomping around on the roof.

Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges
In 1517, Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, feeling great pity for the Indians who grew worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines, proposed to Emperor Charles V that Negroes be brought to the isles of the Caribbean, so that they might grow worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines.

Finished

 
Howard Dean for President, 2004

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posted Wednesday, September 5, 2001

Missing Lonliness

You can't beat summer weather here in the Rocky Mountains. Anywhere. As I walked from my car to work ?- really the only time I ever get to spend outside anymore ? I reflected on this thought. The sun didn't blaze or sear like clear, sunny days usually do; the sun seemed content to simply shine. A cool breeze was enough to keep the air from feeling stagnant, but did not bluster nor annoy. No humidity. No bugs. Perfect. The air even smelled clean.

Spending time in lower altitudes, as I have this past month, has really led to the development of a genuine appreciation for my home state. Not that I don't love the smell of an ocean breeze or the skin softening effects of humidity, but I have definitely realized that this place has spoiled me with its beauty.

Also on said walk between car and work, I came to a chilly realization that I miss being alone. I miss my depressive winter months, pressing through piles of books and schoolwork, passing through familiar halls of familiar faces and not knowing anyone. I miss coming home and spending hours alone just reading or creating bits of art here and there.

These days have been truly filled to the brim with activity. Constantly making new lists and revising old ones. Berating myself for forgetting little things. Berating myself for not having time to do everything. I want life to slow down and I know I have the power to do so, but the crux of the problem is my desire to be everything to everyone. I try to maintain my relationships with friends in Denver, my family and friends here in town, and it stretches me to the point of breaking.

I need to stop. I will stop. Perhaps this is a cycle that happens every year, where I swing between poles of high summer activity and slow winter torpor. Well, as they say, variety is the spice of life.

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Chris Paul

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