… and it’s disheartening if you think getting attention matters, an attitude I occasionally fall prey to but then I remind myself that that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m writing to write—and I do like that I’m—I like that I’m explaining some things
(change that metaphor about processed food to the one about taxidermy? maybe? maybe not? It’s a metaphor, so it’s not truth anyway)
Pulling Sammy back into the house from the yard, he’d come back with me a few steps, then arc around back toward the north, barking—and—yeah—so, that bit I read last week about wealthy people at Hamptons throwing money around to, at least partly, it seemed, impress their friends. People in that situation think money matters. This must include P_____, who works for a hedge fund or something, so I’ve heard. It’s a little disappointing, actually, that he had these altruistic motives, then went into hedge funds. Ah, well. I shouldn’t judge. Sometimes, even to observe and write one’s observations is to judge. B___ wrote in her journal that she judges people—and she had even judged herself as not too pretty, not too skinny, stuff like that. I wrote next to that, that “what I’m about to say may be one of those obnoxious things adults say, but that eventually, you’ll see what a great person you are, and a few years from now, you may read this and have some sympathy for the sweetness expressed here,” something like that, a little sappy, perhaps, but … She also wrote abut worrying so much she can’t sleep sometimes.
[From journal of Tues., 28 August 2012, Journal 165, page 58]
MonkeyMoonMachine 