Yesterday I got the news that I had been admitted to Graduate School. As a writer. So I thought I should share this news with a friend of mine, so I sent her an email and in the subject line, of course I wrote, “it’s offocial.”
In the past, the first few days of our family celebration of Hanukkah had been simple, but needed, gifts. These have generally been socks, gloves, underwear, candles – necessary items that were useful. This morning I realized I have nothing for anyone for Hanukkah. Instead, I have added a new lock to my bedroom door.
A neighbor has a beautiful dog named Champ. Sometimes Champ goes missing, he is a wild boy and enjoys his freedom. When Champ goes on one of his holidays, his so-called “owner” will walk around the neighborhood calling out “Champ” but he rarely pays them any attention. I tend to enjoy the mornings when I hear the chanting of Champ because just for moment I allow myself to think I have somehow been part of the World Cup team and my fans are outside waiting for autographs.
About 15 years ago I began painting clocks. I would buy 10-15 clocks at Ikea, bring them home, remove the hands and paint the faces, replace the hands, put a battery in the now wildly painted clock, and put the clock on the wall in a small downstairs bathroom in our house. At some point we counted all the clocks ticking away in that small room and it was 112. If you found yourself alone in that room, sitting quietly doing what people do in small bathrooms sitting quietly, it was like a symphony of ticking; tick tick tick, sometimes overwhelming, mostly whimsical, surrounded by these crazy clocks, not one actually telling the proper time.
Time Magazine named a faceless protester as “Man of the Year.” A few years ago I was directing a documentary on the collapse of the American Economy and at one point I found myself in the Time Magazine offices in Manhattan, interviewing their chief business correspondent, and while he was gathering some information, I was blown away by the fact that we were surround by dozens of empty cubicles once filled with working journalists, now, just empty desks. I wonder who actually voted for this unknown Protester.
You all know that this blog is dancing to a new space, yes?
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