The more I write, the deeper the gap seems between each instance that I do. I often wonder about what the rhythm of life is like for a Writer, or what quota of produced work is required for one to assume such a towering title. Throw out the wondering, and the one thing I can say with certainty is that the more I write, the more I don’t feel Right if I don’t.

Maybe that is the criteria of the title; not that the product is something eloquent or polished or rhetorically convincing – but that the very act is essential to one’s daily existence.¹

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After over two-month’s time at Vickery, I’ve finally come around to putting things on the walls and situated some rugs about the floor. Increasingly in the months to come, this place will serve as both Home and Office, and since I will be spending a good amount of my time here, I wanted to be certain my surroundings occupied an aesthetic groove more agreeable than were the blankwhitewalls before.

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Last night, I bought some irresistible whole wheat bread from the 24-hour gas station by Mockingbird Station. I photographed a wedding yesterday, and typically after such marathons I am bent towards a soft, chewy peanut butter sandwich. Since grocery stores have no concept of the time 1:38AM [and because I was simply unable to control my insatiable desire for the bread], I went to the biggest gas station in my area with hopes they would carry some of the grainy goodness, and in fact they did!

When I got home, I made not one, but three sandwiches [over time, will you] before bed, which is not among the healthiest choices I have ever made.² My judgment is substantially impaired after a wedding day, though, so I leave myself a good amount of slack.

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When I lived in New York, I thrived on the letters a good friend and I wrote back and forth to one another. Some of my [self-induced] loneliest episodes took place in that bedroom in Spanish Harlem, and often the thing that kept me from spiraling into some stupid culture-shocked-self-victimization was the little brown envelope which periodically appeared over the Entourage icon in my dock. “New Mail!” – I thought – meant that I meant.

That which does not destroy us makes us stronger;
We must pass through the destruction to be Made.³

As I have lately begun to re-read the particular form these letters assumed between the two of us, I wanted to make sure in future letters that I maintained the unique ethos of our so-far correspondence. Reading our antiquated exchange has made me realize – among other things – how I once failed to capitalize any one word that needed it. I can remember one definite time during last summer when I decided I was going to begin capitalizing the things in my writing that asked for it. Though it was a whimsical decision, I thought that it would also be a healthy thing to get together. That is only one small example of how we change, and the sorts of steps we take to get there.

No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible.⁴

Unfortunately, when Texas took away the apostlesnyc.com domain from my email address, she took with it the majority of our year-long electronic correspondence. I do think this friend is in much the same boat [an ironic adage considering his current Place] as I was there, in terms of separation from friends, family [and cultural familiarity], though I am sure on a much deeper and intense level. I can not imagine what us writing back and forth must mean for him, considering how much it means for me, a child safe in the city where he grew [grows] up.