Every so often, people poke cameras through my courtyard gates and start taking pictures of the apartments in my complex. It’s not incredibly surprising, since I live in a restored 1880s adobe building in an historic neighborhood. And in theory it doesn’t bother me – it’s a beautiful place! Yes, let’s admire it! But in practice? Well. It starts to feel invasive when the people get snippy if I don’t let them through the gate, or if my dog happens to bark at them (which, can you blame him?).
(And sorry. I am not going to willingly let you into the courtyard so you can more easily take pictures through my living room window.)
Now, the vague principles of good internet writing suggest (and none too forcefully, because: vague) that this invasion should be the guiding principle of my post, through which will run a sinister thread about privacy lost and lifestyles derailed. And I could tell you about the beautiful interview Sarah McCarry (a.k.a The Rejectionist) conducted with my friend Mairead about her experiences with depression (which is part of a larger project Sarah is doing) – I could talk about the dark paths depression forges through the mind, how it creeps up. But in fact I’m not the best narrator for that story: Sarah and Mairead do much better, because it’s theirs.
I guess I could also talk about how I need STILL ANOTHER filling, because my dentist wants to re-do one of the previous ones. (Sure! I love getting shots. IN MY MOUTH.) Or about how The Last Unicorn is playing in town tonight, and the image of the Red Bull chasing the unicorns into the sea has haunted me since childhood. (Obviously.)
But I think I’d rather kick back and think about more toast-related jokes, and look at these photographs by Mike Hollingshead, STORM CHASER. (If it’s not going to drop below 60 degrees this week, the least I can do is imagine hostile weather systems.)
Won’t you join me?
Last note: if you’re interested in literary craft lectures (a limited audience, perhaps, but I think there’s some reasonable representation among readers of this blog), Warren Wilson’s MFA program just put up a whole slew of ’em, for only $5 a pop. Peter Turchi, Kevin McIlvoy, and Heather McHugh are only THREE of the many fantastic writer/teachers represented.