One of my regular readers was giving me a hard time about "The Boogers" over beer this evening, and I made the excuse that if one plans to write, one must write regularly, and not just when one has something profound to say. Nevertheless, this is a friend who more often than not delivers a legitimate assessment of my actions, and I defer to his gentle derision. In truth it's just been a slightly fallow period, during which I'm more inclined to party than anything else, or sleep; and the truly grace-filled and productive days seem accidental.
Instead perhaps I should focus on the people who visit the food shelf, or the depressing statistics on rising child homelessness in the Twin Cities. I should talk about my pressing crush on a certain friend, who is so doubly, triply off-limits (me married, etc) that to even express the thought is a shameful and pointless self-indulgence; I should consider instead the lilies of the damned field, as the man says.
But in truth it takes a fair amount of energy these days for me to be well-behaved. To pretend that my appetites don't distract me, to pretend that I'm unaware of temptation, to fake a disciplined demeanor in the hope that on some level I really am that much in control. To think of God, the ever-present Father, and know that no trip to the cookie jar goes unnoticed. It's self-destructive, I know. I used to think it was normal behavior; now I know better, but I want it just the same. More more more.