There's a portion of the house he labelled as the craft area. That's her tiny hand on the Alice Munro book we were reading together. It was the same day she showed us that she could already crawl. For a while now, she's also able to sit upright and on her own.
I'm listening to a song by the Kooks. I run sometimes, read often, work at home, spend 100% of my time with family. In shutting down so much of the world, we find a gentle equilibrium. I've been happy, and beginning to compensate for all the time I've wasted doing something else.
And I've also been guilty. I am not unfazed with what's happening outside, in my country and the rest of the world. It's not just indignation I feel, it's outrage. It is as if the history of the country and the history of the world is a recurring manifestation of failures, only in different faces, different modes of technology, in but always in the same pursuit of greed for money, power, violence. The rest of us settle for indifference, becoming bystanders to our own fate.
History's a TV series, and we're just willing (if not gratified) to watch each other die.
In between, there's craft corners and a baby's hand on the surface of a book. A man reading, running, working, loving his family and his life away. The country, the world will come to its senses. He keeps hoping that in good time and in a more gentle way,
We should all read some more. Kindness and understanding shouldn't be so arcane, so scarce. The December light falls on him. I'm not just dreaming, he almost seems certain.
