Reading A Sport and a Pastime by James Salter

Hi angel’s, that’s right you heard me. Plural, not singular. I’m speaking to you all today. I'm back.

Figured it’s been a while since I blasted my stream of consciousness and that felt a little off brand for me so I’m righting my wrongs with a true to self, publish straight from the new post section, sans editing, just to see what happens. Thrill seeking stuff. Sort of like posting straight to feed on Instagram. Which has also been awhile for me. Too long since I raw dogged on that platform and it’s been weighing on me. Posting used to feel like breathing. I fear I’ve become too self critical. A mantra I fall back on is “they don’t build statues out of critics”, but do I want a statue built of myself when I die? Absolutely not, but my brother once told me he did, which makes me laugh now.

This came up in conversation when I decided to ask my family how they envisioned their funerals. You see I’m big on a rave to the grave concept, while my Mother was more partial to the traditional cucumber sandwiches and burial, so that there’s always a place for people to visit her and grieve. Very Matriarch of her. Not sure I fancy getting buried. I’ve come to consider what a large amount of space cemeteries are taking, and it feels wasteful. I remember hearing that one day cemeteries will be under water and all sorts of scary things will start to float once climate change really starts rearing its ugly head. That doesn’t sound restful in the slightest now does it.

These are the sorts of silly things that come to my mind when I write here without a focus. It’s actually so fun, I don’t know why I ever thought this wasn’t a good idea. I’ve been loving writing the letters to my daughter, and I’m deep in the middle of writing my 3rd, before you start to question. I must say that unpacking my year in New York is no easy feat. I’ve unearthed email correspondence between Marino and I during the year we were apart. It made me shed a tear, and simultaneously want to throw up in my own mouth (as opposed to whose?) when I observed how seriously I chose my words 10 years ago. Very dramatic of me, very poetic, those were the days honestly.

Sometimes I feel like life has become so efficient, that we’re all trying to use as little words as possible to communicate, exert the least amount of effort to produce the maximum amount of results. I still have a soft spot for anyone who still writes novels, letters, diaries, to-do lists by hand. I feel I’m in the right place, as I write to you from Intelligentsia, surrounded by people working on their screenplays, the courier font closes in on me, a room full of romantics slaving away to keep the art of writing alive.

I started reading the late James Salter’s ‘A Sport and a Past Time’ last night. Written in the 60’s, set in France, it’s the closest thing I’ll get to my annual European holiday. This year 14 hour flights seem too much to bear while I’m physically expanding. The potential for swelling is exponential. I was actually approached for a job in the South of France this month, however when casting found out I was 20 weeks pregnant, they backed off. Wonder why?