I am waiting for my temples to go gray. They may have already and I just haven’t noticed, but I don’t think that’s yet the case. With my head shaved, it is hard to tell. There does not appear, at nearly 32 years old, to be any gray in my beard or my hair. I don’t know why I am waiting for the gray. I suppose that in my mind the gray hair is connected with wisdom, or perhaps more accurately, the appearance of wisdom. In my mind’s eye, the vision I have for the man I want to be, or the man I want to appear to be, I imagine that once I go gray, a patina of silver glinting in the stubble at my temples and my chin, that I’ll approximate in some way Brett Favre or The Most Interesting Man in the World: a weathered, handsome visage across which wisdom and experience are elegantly scrawled in silver script. Okay, I’m pushing it; wisdom may never be one of the things that’s written on Favre’s face, but there is something captivating, and handsomely grizzled in his appearance that I desire in mine.
Archive for June, 2011
There are a lot of things to like about the Adjustment Bureau. For one, it’s hard not to enjoy spending 90 minutes with Matt Damon and Emily Blunt. They are likeable actors who seem so comfortable on screen and with each other, and both turn in the bankable performances that they’re known for. Damon and Blunt have an easiness with each other that’s instantly accessible, an casual way with humor that’s not funny so much as comforting and, though the roles aren’t challenging, they manage them well.
I just got off the phone with a friend to whom I said, “I have to write everyday or I will kill myself.” That is not a literal truth, but neither is it a huge exaggeration. When I don’t write, when I spend my days avoiding writing, for whatever good reason, and let a string of days go by without stopping to record something, without stopping to reflect on my life I begin to lose faith, to doubt myself. The crisp image I have of myself, the firm identity I draw from writing, from being a writer, a storyteller, a scribbler and a poet, begins to dim, begins to fade from the page, and I am left with very little to believe in. And that is what I need on a daily basis, to believe in something, to believe in myself, to believe that I exist and that what I do matters somehow. I can’t tell you in words why what I write matters more than what I draw or what I design, but it does. On a metaphysical level I need these words to exist.