Two things in The New York Times almost made me cry on the train this evening: first, the idea that there’s an immigrant kid at a school in Decatur, Georgia named Bill Clinton — because this story about educating the children in a town full of refugees was so full of hope, and of people being, y’know, good to each other for once; and second, this little piece of fiction by Roddy Doyle, ‘The Box,’ just because.
It’s been a weird year, and I think on balance I’ll be glad to see the back of it, and it has been full of moments of almost crying in public, out of joy or sorrow or some emotion so far from articulability that you might as well call it banana. It’s had mania and flatness and hope and regret and laughter and anxious fretting and all kinds of stuff. Too much ill health and disorder. Not enough writing. A periodic sense that odd and ancient artifacts of unknown significance lie just beneath the soil, waiting for one good storm to expose them to the light at last. The occasional elliptic and self-indulgent blog post, even.
Anyway, I hope that as the world tilts back toward the light you can feel it carrying you along as it goes. Whoever you are.