Early Work

It is late. Because it is always late. I'm always late. 

When it comes to... everything.

Getting to yoga (though I'm getting better).

Answering texts. 

Figuring out life. 

It struck me that what Andre Agassi said is so true: 

“I don’t feel that Wimbledon changed me. I feel, in fact, as if I’ve been let in on a dirty little secret: winning changes nothing. Now that I’ve won a slam, I know something that very few people on earth are permitted to know. A win doesn’t feel as good as a loss feels bad, and the good feeling doesn’t last as long as the bad. Not even close.”

–Andre Agassi, Open: An Autobiography        

(full disclosure, I happened to come upon this quote through that happier at home lady, gretchin) 

When you win something that you've wanted.. you've got to reel and come up with a new goal. And quickly. I've always been bad at this. I loved finals in college for the stress, for the anxiety... for the high stakes... and when it was all done and everyone else was off to party, I couldn't relax, I thought: Hang on? Is that it? Shouldn't I feel *changed.* Accomplished? After 18 hour days and nights for weeks. Now there's just.... what? My victory lap in the sphere of accomplishment lasted half a breath of a heartbeat. No more. 

The striving is the interesting part. If you can settle in and enjoy it. 

Which is why this girl's latest blog post bothered me..... she pleads with new readers, "oh please, oh please, if you are new and brought here by the glowing praise and publicity I've garnered recently... *don't go* look at my oldest awful trainwreck posts.... "

But isn't the stuff with the rough edges kind of more fascinating? The imperfect reach... before we know how to preen and show ourselves off with a just-so slick flourish? 

That's what the Czech artists think, according to my sister. Which I agree when I see the work of the likes of Peter Sís who just came out with the *best book* about St. Exupéry, which I realized when listening to the NPR interview, that I had no idea how to say the frenchman's name, and hope nobody asks me to talk about him and say his name anytime soon. This is the primary value for NPR for me. Finding out how many things I don't know how to pronounce correctly. (Though I don't care at all how their French correspondent says anything -- she sounds like a bored schoolteacher who, no matter the story, drones on ad nauseam as if she's reading out of an instruction manual for taking apart a ditto machine).

Anyway, Sís' finish to the book mimeographs the way St. Exupéry finished his life... which in our conventional way of looking at things, was a failure, not a success... a losing... a losing of his life... at the very end. But because this is Sís, he makes this end a wonder: St. Exupéry travels into the mysterious blue. Not ocean, not sky, but that somewhere in between -- a pilots' myth only St. Exupéry could find. Fying and then... not winning, not losing, nor failing or mastering life at long last... only blue...................