two hundred. twelve.

I'm bad at keeping a blog, lately.
I've been doing a bunch of outside of blog writing, which is good. Long overdue. Unfortunately it hasn't been much in the way of a finished piece, more just like a bunch of bits that might one day be unified. We'll see.

I recently read Annie Dillards book about writing, "The Writing Life." It was exquisite. I nodded along a lot. Two people have made me want to smoke cigarettes: Annie Dillard and Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf.
No, I won't be picking up the habit.
It seems such a writerly thing to do though, cooped up, malnourished and smoking cigarettes. Oh, the glamour.
Anyhow, it was a good book.

It's funny how often I neglect to lead the life I most want to. I fall short and take cheap shortcuts which bring me back even further. I'll feel fulfilled in the tasks I'm set to do and then the next day I'll be lazy and constantly find myself falling underneath my goals. It's quite frustrating. I find myself shifting blame to the cloudy sky, to my  job, cold breezes. I blame my blankets for their warmth, my eyelids for their heaviness, my lungs for their inability to keep up.
Truly, I know it's a lack of discipline. I find myself looking inwards with a snarl of loathing at the indecision that makes me paralyzed.
It's Monday, a better day, starting off this week fresh. The sun is shining and I can't blame the sky for anything.

In regards to what is urgent to write, I'm not sure this would be seen as urgent, but there is something that needs to be said on nose-picking.
This won't be the first time I've said something on the subject.
It may well be the third.
It's that important.
There is a man, we'll call him John, who sits at the coffee shop nearly every week day before he goes down and teaches in the city. He's on his laptop writing papers, grading papers, etc. He always gets a latte in an in-house cup. He is very direct in his gaze and always intentionally says thank you.
[It's a bit disarming, to be honest.]
Anyhow, John always looks as if he's about ready to dart out of his chair: elbows half perched on the table, one leg under the table and the other shifted outwards, his body at a diagonal. It's very humorous.
One interesting thing about John is his unashamed habit of picking his nose. It could be said that 80% of the time that I look over at John, he's got his finger halfway up his nostril. Now, I've always been one to say that I wish nose-picking was socially acceptable so that I could have the same casual approach of picking my nose as John does. The sad truth, however, is that it is not, and so there is a sort of horror about a man picking his nose constantly and with such a breezy attitude. It's done with the same habitual air as those who drum their fingers on the table, jiggle their knees or bite their nails (guilty).
It's one thing to pick your nose in the privacy of your car. We've all passed and smiled at those old men who absentmindedly poke around their noses at the stop light. Funny old men.
But here John is in the middle of the cafe picking his nose like a 4 year old.