In every broken heart is a fissure to fill with what you learned. Every matter of the heart from then after receives a fuller love.
Tonight you spent 45 minutes writing an exposition on longevity and its impact on so-termed “quality of life”. You wrote for 45 minutes in order to determine that only one sentiment mattered. Then you scrapped what you wrote and wrote this instead.
This weekend I began reading some “scholarly” essays in casual pursuit of following the curriculum of a college-level anthropology class on gender and sex. Finishing the first reading, an essay from a 1970s issue of Feminist Studies, I felt my brain struggling to keep up with a style and complexity of writing that I’m no longer familiar with. As compared to almost any other form of casual reading—non-fiction, fiction, newspapers, blogs, you name it—academic writing is difficult.
I spent the night in Oakland at a cooking class taught by Phil Gelb. Five of us cozied up in his kitchen and made food-magic happen. Pumpkin gnocchi in a walnut sage cream sauce, roasted beets, simple vegetable soup, and deep-fried tempeh cutlets cooked in marsala wine. Phil set out homemade cashew ricotta cheese—divine— and improv jazz wafted about his compact urban loft.
For the past fifty days, I’ve been writing at night. I am often not functional in the morning, and the brief time I do claim in the early hours often goes toward reading. And so I’ve found myself writing these entries late, frequently from my bed, as I struggle to keep my eyes open for just one more sentence. And while some nights I manage to write something I feel is of worth, more and more the past several weeks I’ve noticed a lack of inspiration when I need it most.