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Spring 2023
General News
Friday Morning:
I guess it’s technically Good Friday as I write this. I say “technically” only because I don’t celebrate the death of Jesus. (Is celebrate the right word?) It definitely is a particularly good Friday to some, it just hasn’t been that good to me, yet. But, the holiday has given some of us from Eastie a chance to schedule a discounted silent meditation retreat. Apparently, the Catholic clientele who usually rent this patch of forest have all elected to stay home for the high holidays. So, while they hunt for eggs and eat brunch with their friends and families, we will sit silently in the woods at 60% of the usual rate. Oh, the joys of agnosticism!
Now, if you are reading this and you are thinking: “Wait, why would they need to spend any money at all on some overpriced retreat center? Don’t they already live in an idyllic town with their own trees and lake and nature?”-- then you and I were under the same misapprehension. Apparently, our nature is not good enough. The trees we’re paying to visit are much more peaceful and thoughtful than the ones back home. These are trees that journal and box breathe and listen to On Being. These trees--skilled professionals who could invoice their services for around $80,000 a year--are too enlightened to care about anything as passing and sterile as money. So, they have instead elected to donate the fees for their services to the chronically underfunded Catholic Church. And the Catholic Church has a pretty good record of fighting fascism and keeping overhead costs low to put their funds where it matters most, so I can feel good about where my money is going (this is a joke; that is not true).
Getting back to the point, two van-fulls of us Eastie Folks drove up last night and arrived just in time to get our cabins picked and bags unpacked before the sun set. My van spent the entire drive listening to Neil Young and passing around bags of gas station snacks, so my concerns about the retreat center were quickly replaced with a greater fear that I had died and gone to fucking heaven.
I’m not usually a big fan of road trips. Up until this point, I had blamed that on things like their environmental impact and their connection to mid-century myths of manhood that seemed to work out great for Bob Dylan but seemed to lead a lot of the men I dated in my younger years to rebel against such bourgeoisie injustices as doing half of the dishes or showing up on time to my best friend’s wedding. It turns out that all I needed to enjoy a road trip was to abandon any sense of responsibility whatsoever. As soon as I was in the back seat with my eyes closed and my fists full of quickly melting chocolate raisins, I started to really understand why this On the Road lifestyle was worth wading through those insufferable prose.
After a night spent enjoying our last chance to talk until Monday--by which I really mean spent playing fishbowl and yelling our hearts out--I was more than a little tickled to wake up and find that I had lost my voice.
I guess we’ll see how the rest of the weekend goes.
Friday Evening:
I’m dying to talk.
Desperate!
I really hoped that I would hold up better. I wanted to believe that I was some serious person who--when finally given some time and space--would find myself buried in thought.
Not true.
Instead, I find that I am spending most of my time wondering what other people are thinking. I’m seeing people sitting under trees and walking along trails and wishing that I could check out their minds like library books. At one point, I tried to trick myself into having an epiphany by imagining what other people were thinking. It didn’t work. It turns out that my fictionalized friends were having the same boring thoughts as I was (just with slightly different mind-voices). Seeing Ellen walk up to different trees and slide her hand down the bark, I briefly wondered about what it would be like if every living thing you touched gave you some new realization about the world. But that doesn’t really count as an epiphany. It’s barely a short story idea.
My only real solace is knowing that Monnie is having an even worse time than me. A little before lunch--I mean, I love Monnie…but she couldn’t even make it to the afternoon--she tried to pull me into the woods to gossip. Apparently, she thought that she heard Dave and Ellen sneaking off in the middle of the night. She heard giggling, she heard talking, she heard Dave and Ellen.
Now…that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And as a journalist, I can’t imply that Dave and Ellen ever went into the woods at all, much less participated in any ejaculate-adjacent forest hobbies. So please don’t focus on this part of the story. Focus on something else. Or maybe think about world events, instead. Or just be mad at yourself that, even though you have all the time you need to think and meditate and ponder, you’re no closer to finding a sustainable two state solution for Canada.
I am proud to note that I didn’t say anything to Monnie. Which, for the record, was very hard for me. I am a journalist at heart, and that poor little journalist's heart was drowning in Qs to throw at that A-hole. But, hard as it was, I stood my ground.
“You will not believe what I heard last night.”
*Nothing*
“I don’t know, do you think they’re together? I mean, maybe they are just having a nice time in the forest…But you can have a nice time inside. Look at Dot and I. We stayed in, played cards, had the time of our life.”
* Still nothing*
I mean, how do you explain through pantomime why some people prefer casual sex to Spades?
Saturday Morning:
Not to be ungrateful, but why do continental breakfasts have shitty bacon and eggs?
To be clear, I am not asking why they don’t have excellent bacon and eggs. That makes sense to me. It would require a price of ingredient and an amount of human effort that is untenable for an almost free meal (I mean we did pay to come to this shitty retreat center in the first place; some of that dough must have been allocated towards the bacon-flavored paper I ate this morning).
I guess my feeling is that, if you can’t do bacon and eggs, don’t do bacon and eggs. Do bagels and cereal. Or fresh fruit and yogurt. Hell, I’d be happy with a carton of eggs and an unlocked kitchen. I just don’t understand why so many places seem married to this idea that they have to have bacon and eggs. Or, that bacon and eggs will make their sad, little buffet a “real breakfast” when there are options that are easier and cheaper that would make people happier. It just requires giving up on what you think you are “supposed” to have for breakfast and thinking about what you really have to offer.
This is the closest I have gotten to a spiritual epiphany on this trip.
My mind can only function by complaining.
Saturday Night:
I spent all day trying to have some big realization. No luck. I’m starting to feel embarrassed. I mean, how stupid am I going to look if I come home after three days of bitter silence and all I have to show for it is a gentle calm and a rested mind?
I sat beneath a tree for an hour. Then I paced between trees. Then I went inside. Then I went outside. But everywhere I go, I still have the same fucking brain.
I remembered Sarah telling me a story once about having some big realization on one of these silent retreats, so I tried to ask her for some help. After it became clear that charades was not the universal language I hoped it might be, I went on the hunt for a pen and paper. It took a whole five minutes of searching through the main building here before I remembered that I have this journal in my backpack. (Sometimes I worry that if I ever really understood just how dumb I am, my head would float away like a balloon.) Finding Sarah in her new position by the indoor fireplace, I showed her my little scrap of paper with the question, “How should I be quiet better so it will blow my mind?”
She took my paper, flipped it over, and wrote something quickly before folding it in half and sliding it back in my hands.
“This is cheating.”
Sunday Morning:
Last night--while I was failing to sleep after leaving all of my weed at home (because apparently I’m supposed to show some respect for the wishes of this Catholic wasteland even though I don’t expect those prickly fucks to respect my wishes over a piece of toast; much less over my body or my community or anything else they don’t already agree with)--I was pretty sure that I heard two people running through the forest. It was a small sound, but I was having one of those nights where nothing is easy to ignore.
It was kind of a scream, kind of a laugh, kind of a shout, kind of an echo. Does someone need my help? Are people gathering to roast marshmallows? To smoke weed (please)? Is it Dave and Ellen? Or maybe some angry Catholics here to scare us heathens off with their patented brand of religious violence? So I awayed to woods, unsure whether I would find friends, fuckers, or forest animals.
If you are wondering: “Wow, you went out in the strange, dark woods in the middle of the night? How did you avoid getting lost?” --then I have some disappointing news for you…
At first, I was calm. Once someone put a flashlight in my phone, I sort of assumed I’d never be lost again. But after about five minutes, I really started to worry. By the time I found a stream, I was melting down. I’ve read enough books about people on the lam to know that once you find running water, you follow it until it brings you to the nearest town, but I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of following this creek to Beemer in hopes that they have reliable enough cell phone coverage for me to call for help. I decided it was at least worth a good five minutes of walking downstream in case I ran into a trail.
Sometimes, I’m a genius.
Following the trail, I tried to trust that I was moving towards my bed. Frankly, I didn’t even know if this trail was part of the retreat center. I mentally prepared myself to explain my unexpected presence at any farm or secluded home I bumbled into. “Hello, so sorry to disturb you. I’m just one of the silly silent bozos next door. I was trying to find enlightenment, but I found you guys instead. Please don’t kill me.” Eventually, I saw a trail head with a cabin drawn on an arrow and I followed that arrow for dear life.
Where the trail empties out into the clearing, a man was standing under one of the outdoor lights. I’d never seen this man before and asked whether he worked here. He held his finger up to shush me and then held his whole hand over his mouth. I asked again, and he pointed towards the cabins. I offered, “Is that where you’re staying, too?” and then he shushed me again.
I don’t understand Catholics and I am unwilling to try.
Sunday Night:
This afternoon, we all went on a little hike. The whole weekend has been full of these tiny little outings and events to distract us from the fact that we cannot speak. Nothing did me much good, but I showed up to everything on time and eager. I’ve been desperate to chat with someone all weekend, and the desperate are some of the most motivated and punctual people you’ll ever meet. It is why all of the people you know with consistent work-out routines are so fucked up.
On the hike, I realized that we were heading up the same path where I had returned to camp the evening before. When we made it to the trailhead that had saved my hide, the line leader turned the other way. I did not. Given that I wasn’t even allowed to talk, I didn’t see the point of sticking with the pack (unless they expected us to huddle together for warmth or form a human pyramid to see over a tall bush).
Solo hiking, I was shocked by how tame and domesticated the trail seemed in the afternoon sun. I felt so silly that I had been sorting through survival tactics on a path dotted with benches and votive statues. The closest I got to fear on this hike was the split second when I confused a statue in the distance with an alien playing the harp. This statue--which a distant memory of my freshman ancient literature class leads me to believe is a young, twinky King David--was stuffed back between the trees at the base of a steep hill.
And in my defense, statues have definitely looked more like humans. With weirdly round eyes and a molding concrete color, this David could double as a teaching tool to show the effects of hallucinogenic drugs to the teetotal Benedictine dorks that usually hang out here. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it had not been hidden away in an attempt to scare and confuse unsuspecting agnostics. It was hidden because someone had carved into the concrete; first the names of two lovers (Bill and Allie) and then a generous penis between David’s legs.
Technically, I do not know which was carved first. It is always possible that the cock was carved first and then Allie--seeing the attribute that she so admired in and associated with Bill--suggested they carve their names as well. That said, if I was looking to en-dong-ify a statue, I imagine that an earnest declaration of love would only make the target that much more appealing. Either way, the vandalism only increased the statue's value in my estimation.
And then I thought of my beautiful Greg. Statues always make me think of Greg. Well, they make me think of the poet Frank O’Hara and these lines from “Having a Coke With You”:
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
…
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
Thinking, with my whole beautiful brain lighting up like a light bulb pride parade, I found myself more and more bothered by the decision to hide this statue away in the woods. I wanted it on some pedestal. I mean, what is less “unpleasantly definitive” as love and the ongoing vandalism of Catholic teens?
Alone--but only in terms of how many people were around me--I walked out to the statue, pulled out my little pocket knife, and carved “Greg and Lydia” in a heart on David’s back. I was tempted to etch it on Dave’s dick, but--knowing I am no Donatello--didn’t want to risk destroying something so beautiful.
As I carved, my mind shifted to the centuries of artists who made sculptures as public art intended to instill shared values in the people who saw it every day. I thought of beautiful works made by talented artists at the behest of the vile and the violent*. I thought about how many sculptures I have seen of Generals and Colonels and genocidal conquerors whose bloodshed was redeemed through victory and the greened bronze that comes with it. And I thought about the rise of abstract public art; polished geometric forms and arrangements of red beams on well manicured lawns. And while I do love many of these sculptures, and would prefer them to some polishes marble showing Richard Nixon unspooling a cassette tape or LBJ admonishing reporters from his toilet, I worried that they are only gaining such prominence because the alternative would be to agree on what values are worth championing. I wondered, if Shelley’s traveler were to find our arrangement of red beams rather than the legs of Ozymandias, what would he think?
Well, if he found my beloved David in the woods, he would know that I love Greg very much. And that Allie is a very lucky lady. And I would be very happy with that.
*I mean, the Medicci’s displayed a cruel self-interest that would put most university presidents and tech CEOs to shame.
Tuesday:
Reading through these journal entries with Greg before sitting down to write out my final thoughts, I commented, “You know, I spent all of Saturday worrying about having some realization, and all of that stress and work and worry didn’t accomplish anything. I just needed to trust that my realization would come eventually.” Greg responded, “Well I don’t know. I mean, you only found that statue because you had been out there the night before. And if you had spent Saturday differently, who knows if you’d have ever stumbled into that dark forest. Sounds like the whole thing was pretty essential to me.”
And I don’t think he’s right.
But if he is, I’m going to be furious.
I guess it’s technically Good Friday as I write this. I say “technically” only because I don’t celebrate the death of Jesus. (Is celebrate the right word?) It definitely is a particularly good Friday to some, it just hasn’t been that good to me, yet. But, the holiday has given some of us from Eastie a chance to schedule a discounted silent meditation retreat. Apparently, the Catholic clientele who usually rent this patch of forest have all elected to stay home for the high holidays. So, while they hunt for eggs and eat brunch with their friends and families, we will sit silently in the woods at 60% of the usual rate. Oh, the joys of agnosticism!
Now, if you are reading this and you are thinking: “Wait, why would they need to spend any money at all on some overpriced retreat center? Don’t they already live in an idyllic town with their own trees and lake and nature?”-- then you and I were under the same misapprehension. Apparently, our nature is not good enough. The trees we’re paying to visit are much more peaceful and thoughtful than the ones back home. These are trees that journal and box breathe and listen to On Being. These trees--skilled professionals who could invoice their services for around $80,000 a year--are too enlightened to care about anything as passing and sterile as money. So, they have instead elected to donate the fees for their services to the chronically underfunded Catholic Church. And the Catholic Church has a pretty good record of fighting fascism and keeping overhead costs low to put their funds where it matters most, so I can feel good about where my money is going (this is a joke; that is not true).
Getting back to the point, two van-fulls of us Eastie Folks drove up last night and arrived just in time to get our cabins picked and bags unpacked before the sun set. My van spent the entire drive listening to Neil Young and passing around bags of gas station snacks, so my concerns about the retreat center were quickly replaced with a greater fear that I had died and gone to fucking heaven.
I’m not usually a big fan of road trips. Up until this point, I had blamed that on things like their environmental impact and their connection to mid-century myths of manhood that seemed to work out great for Bob Dylan but seemed to lead a lot of the men I dated in my younger years to rebel against such bourgeoisie injustices as doing half of the dishes or showing up on time to my best friend’s wedding. It turns out that all I needed to enjoy a road trip was to abandon any sense of responsibility whatsoever. As soon as I was in the back seat with my eyes closed and my fists full of quickly melting chocolate raisins, I started to really understand why this On the Road lifestyle was worth wading through those insufferable prose.
After a night spent enjoying our last chance to talk until Monday--by which I really mean spent playing fishbowl and yelling our hearts out--I was more than a little tickled to wake up and find that I had lost my voice.
I guess we’ll see how the rest of the weekend goes.
Friday Evening:
I’m dying to talk.
Desperate!
I really hoped that I would hold up better. I wanted to believe that I was some serious person who--when finally given some time and space--would find myself buried in thought.
Not true.
Instead, I find that I am spending most of my time wondering what other people are thinking. I’m seeing people sitting under trees and walking along trails and wishing that I could check out their minds like library books. At one point, I tried to trick myself into having an epiphany by imagining what other people were thinking. It didn’t work. It turns out that my fictionalized friends were having the same boring thoughts as I was (just with slightly different mind-voices). Seeing Ellen walk up to different trees and slide her hand down the bark, I briefly wondered about what it would be like if every living thing you touched gave you some new realization about the world. But that doesn’t really count as an epiphany. It’s barely a short story idea.
My only real solace is knowing that Monnie is having an even worse time than me. A little before lunch--I mean, I love Monnie…but she couldn’t even make it to the afternoon--she tried to pull me into the woods to gossip. Apparently, she thought that she heard Dave and Ellen sneaking off in the middle of the night. She heard giggling, she heard talking, she heard Dave and Ellen.
Now…that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And as a journalist, I can’t imply that Dave and Ellen ever went into the woods at all, much less participated in any ejaculate-adjacent forest hobbies. So please don’t focus on this part of the story. Focus on something else. Or maybe think about world events, instead. Or just be mad at yourself that, even though you have all the time you need to think and meditate and ponder, you’re no closer to finding a sustainable two state solution for Canada.
I am proud to note that I didn’t say anything to Monnie. Which, for the record, was very hard for me. I am a journalist at heart, and that poor little journalist's heart was drowning in Qs to throw at that A-hole. But, hard as it was, I stood my ground.
“You will not believe what I heard last night.”
*Nothing*
“I don’t know, do you think they’re together? I mean, maybe they are just having a nice time in the forest…But you can have a nice time inside. Look at Dot and I. We stayed in, played cards, had the time of our life.”
* Still nothing*
I mean, how do you explain through pantomime why some people prefer casual sex to Spades?
Saturday Morning:
Not to be ungrateful, but why do continental breakfasts have shitty bacon and eggs?
To be clear, I am not asking why they don’t have excellent bacon and eggs. That makes sense to me. It would require a price of ingredient and an amount of human effort that is untenable for an almost free meal (I mean we did pay to come to this shitty retreat center in the first place; some of that dough must have been allocated towards the bacon-flavored paper I ate this morning).
I guess my feeling is that, if you can’t do bacon and eggs, don’t do bacon and eggs. Do bagels and cereal. Or fresh fruit and yogurt. Hell, I’d be happy with a carton of eggs and an unlocked kitchen. I just don’t understand why so many places seem married to this idea that they have to have bacon and eggs. Or, that bacon and eggs will make their sad, little buffet a “real breakfast” when there are options that are easier and cheaper that would make people happier. It just requires giving up on what you think you are “supposed” to have for breakfast and thinking about what you really have to offer.
This is the closest I have gotten to a spiritual epiphany on this trip.
My mind can only function by complaining.
Saturday Night:
I spent all day trying to have some big realization. No luck. I’m starting to feel embarrassed. I mean, how stupid am I going to look if I come home after three days of bitter silence and all I have to show for it is a gentle calm and a rested mind?
I sat beneath a tree for an hour. Then I paced between trees. Then I went inside. Then I went outside. But everywhere I go, I still have the same fucking brain.
I remembered Sarah telling me a story once about having some big realization on one of these silent retreats, so I tried to ask her for some help. After it became clear that charades was not the universal language I hoped it might be, I went on the hunt for a pen and paper. It took a whole five minutes of searching through the main building here before I remembered that I have this journal in my backpack. (Sometimes I worry that if I ever really understood just how dumb I am, my head would float away like a balloon.) Finding Sarah in her new position by the indoor fireplace, I showed her my little scrap of paper with the question, “How should I be quiet better so it will blow my mind?”
She took my paper, flipped it over, and wrote something quickly before folding it in half and sliding it back in my hands.
“This is cheating.”
Sunday Morning:
Last night--while I was failing to sleep after leaving all of my weed at home (because apparently I’m supposed to show some respect for the wishes of this Catholic wasteland even though I don’t expect those prickly fucks to respect my wishes over a piece of toast; much less over my body or my community or anything else they don’t already agree with)--I was pretty sure that I heard two people running through the forest. It was a small sound, but I was having one of those nights where nothing is easy to ignore.
It was kind of a scream, kind of a laugh, kind of a shout, kind of an echo. Does someone need my help? Are people gathering to roast marshmallows? To smoke weed (please)? Is it Dave and Ellen? Or maybe some angry Catholics here to scare us heathens off with their patented brand of religious violence? So I awayed to woods, unsure whether I would find friends, fuckers, or forest animals.
If you are wondering: “Wow, you went out in the strange, dark woods in the middle of the night? How did you avoid getting lost?” --then I have some disappointing news for you…
At first, I was calm. Once someone put a flashlight in my phone, I sort of assumed I’d never be lost again. But after about five minutes, I really started to worry. By the time I found a stream, I was melting down. I’ve read enough books about people on the lam to know that once you find running water, you follow it until it brings you to the nearest town, but I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of following this creek to Beemer in hopes that they have reliable enough cell phone coverage for me to call for help. I decided it was at least worth a good five minutes of walking downstream in case I ran into a trail.
Sometimes, I’m a genius.
Following the trail, I tried to trust that I was moving towards my bed. Frankly, I didn’t even know if this trail was part of the retreat center. I mentally prepared myself to explain my unexpected presence at any farm or secluded home I bumbled into. “Hello, so sorry to disturb you. I’m just one of the silly silent bozos next door. I was trying to find enlightenment, but I found you guys instead. Please don’t kill me.” Eventually, I saw a trail head with a cabin drawn on an arrow and I followed that arrow for dear life.
Where the trail empties out into the clearing, a man was standing under one of the outdoor lights. I’d never seen this man before and asked whether he worked here. He held his finger up to shush me and then held his whole hand over his mouth. I asked again, and he pointed towards the cabins. I offered, “Is that where you’re staying, too?” and then he shushed me again.
I don’t understand Catholics and I am unwilling to try.
Sunday Night:
This afternoon, we all went on a little hike. The whole weekend has been full of these tiny little outings and events to distract us from the fact that we cannot speak. Nothing did me much good, but I showed up to everything on time and eager. I’ve been desperate to chat with someone all weekend, and the desperate are some of the most motivated and punctual people you’ll ever meet. It is why all of the people you know with consistent work-out routines are so fucked up.
On the hike, I realized that we were heading up the same path where I had returned to camp the evening before. When we made it to the trailhead that had saved my hide, the line leader turned the other way. I did not. Given that I wasn’t even allowed to talk, I didn’t see the point of sticking with the pack (unless they expected us to huddle together for warmth or form a human pyramid to see over a tall bush).
Solo hiking, I was shocked by how tame and domesticated the trail seemed in the afternoon sun. I felt so silly that I had been sorting through survival tactics on a path dotted with benches and votive statues. The closest I got to fear on this hike was the split second when I confused a statue in the distance with an alien playing the harp. This statue--which a distant memory of my freshman ancient literature class leads me to believe is a young, twinky King David--was stuffed back between the trees at the base of a steep hill.
And in my defense, statues have definitely looked more like humans. With weirdly round eyes and a molding concrete color, this David could double as a teaching tool to show the effects of hallucinogenic drugs to the teetotal Benedictine dorks that usually hang out here. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it had not been hidden away in an attempt to scare and confuse unsuspecting agnostics. It was hidden because someone had carved into the concrete; first the names of two lovers (Bill and Allie) and then a generous penis between David’s legs.
Technically, I do not know which was carved first. It is always possible that the cock was carved first and then Allie--seeing the attribute that she so admired in and associated with Bill--suggested they carve their names as well. That said, if I was looking to en-dong-ify a statue, I imagine that an earnest declaration of love would only make the target that much more appealing. Either way, the vandalism only increased the statue's value in my estimation.
And then I thought of my beautiful Greg. Statues always make me think of Greg. Well, they make me think of the poet Frank O’Hara and these lines from “Having a Coke With You”:
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
…
I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
Thinking, with my whole beautiful brain lighting up like a light bulb pride parade, I found myself more and more bothered by the decision to hide this statue away in the woods. I wanted it on some pedestal. I mean, what is less “unpleasantly definitive” as love and the ongoing vandalism of Catholic teens?
Alone--but only in terms of how many people were around me--I walked out to the statue, pulled out my little pocket knife, and carved “Greg and Lydia” in a heart on David’s back. I was tempted to etch it on Dave’s dick, but--knowing I am no Donatello--didn’t want to risk destroying something so beautiful.
As I carved, my mind shifted to the centuries of artists who made sculptures as public art intended to instill shared values in the people who saw it every day. I thought of beautiful works made by talented artists at the behest of the vile and the violent*. I thought about how many sculptures I have seen of Generals and Colonels and genocidal conquerors whose bloodshed was redeemed through victory and the greened bronze that comes with it. And I thought about the rise of abstract public art; polished geometric forms and arrangements of red beams on well manicured lawns. And while I do love many of these sculptures, and would prefer them to some polishes marble showing Richard Nixon unspooling a cassette tape or LBJ admonishing reporters from his toilet, I worried that they are only gaining such prominence because the alternative would be to agree on what values are worth championing. I wondered, if Shelley’s traveler were to find our arrangement of red beams rather than the legs of Ozymandias, what would he think?
Well, if he found my beloved David in the woods, he would know that I love Greg very much. And that Allie is a very lucky lady. And I would be very happy with that.
*I mean, the Medicci’s displayed a cruel self-interest that would put most university presidents and tech CEOs to shame.
Tuesday:
Reading through these journal entries with Greg before sitting down to write out my final thoughts, I commented, “You know, I spent all of Saturday worrying about having some realization, and all of that stress and work and worry didn’t accomplish anything. I just needed to trust that my realization would come eventually.” Greg responded, “Well I don’t know. I mean, you only found that statue because you had been out there the night before. And if you had spent Saturday differently, who knows if you’d have ever stumbled into that dark forest. Sounds like the whole thing was pretty essential to me.”
And I don’t think he’s right.
But if he is, I’m going to be furious.
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