"i *love* editing…if i had the time, i’d erase everything i’ve ever done"

Kristin Hersh (via fireland)

(via katherinestasaph)

Dad’s house

Dad’s house

pit stop (at Campbell, California)

pit stop (at Campbell, California)


Tags: california

i say money but i mean time

I was looking at Jeff Sharlet’s instagram today (which you should do), and I started feeling weepy. Because he is telling beautiful micro stories of regular humans, but also because … well, because it was absolutely, tragically inconceivable to me that I might ever have the time to do something similar. To go places and walk around those places and talk to the people there and learn about their lives, and to then write it down. To take photos again, in a real and concerted way. To report on and to learn from people other than myself. 

Because yeah, poor whiny writer boo hoo, sure, but … stories are people. They’re made from people. And writing is time. It’s made of time.

Earlier this morning I was checking my four email accounts and running my three businesses and responding to calls from two different work worlds and making little notes about *actual* things I want to write, will write, that will be amazing and good, and re-writing my lists of things to do now, later, maybe never.

Instead of making lunch at a reasonable hour, I went on a quick walk (no time for a proper run before a phone meeting because I slept a little too long because I was bone tired after a 16-hr day yesterday, so I was behind again). I smelled the trees, which were damp with mizzle (that’s Bay Arean for “mist + drizzle). I looked up at this giant fucking tree that I like to walk by, a redwood, an older-than-everything fencepost to the clouds.

And I thought, shit. No wonder I feel like I just can’t get any work done lately. I am exhausted. My brain is exhausted.  And the creativity centers in my brain are not exhausted. They are stir crazy. And that combination is also exhausting. Exhausted.

And then I checked my phone.

The reality of working for a living and of existing in this particular insanity of this whatever it’s called, this bubble or gig economy or new world order (and perhaps the reality of also growing older), is that there is just. No. Time. 

I guess I can spin it like a freelancerpreneur, and say that the reality of being in the amazing position of having too many awesome ideas and stories and projects and jobs (ok, some of the jobs are not so awesome) is that there is no time.

But it wasn’t always this way. I remember. My brain might be fried from constant multitasking, from overstimulation and opinion overload and all the attendant weights of Being A Word Person On The Internet And Also For Money, but I swear it wasn’t always like this. What happened?

Part of being a person making a living right now is that there is no time. No off, no quiet, no run, no time. 

This is what I want. This is what I miss. This is what the gig economy takes from us. Time.

Not money; time. 

Things to do on my first day of being 38: put things into perspective. (at Grove of the Old Trees)

Things to do on my first day of being 38: put things into perspective. (at Grove of the Old Trees)

gonna eat a steak in here  (at The Casino Bar &Grill)

gonna eat a steak in here (at The Casino Bar &Grill)

video of the way the redwoods smell the morning after rain