I'm intrigued by these 1920s literati, even though so many of them seem to descend into eugenics or alcohol, but it's so easy to compare one's life with other imagined lives, and what good does comparison do? I have a long LJ post in mind about comparisons, which I'll write soon, but lately I look around at what I've achieved and in some ways I became the problem I defined myself to solve, and yet, did I settle for a simple equation, when I could have been a really elegant solution? Last night on the radio, excerpts of Brando doing the "contender" speech, and then Elia Kazan defending himself from giving names to McCarthy. I realize,sometimes, that I must define me by my standards, as I cannot live a life in cinematic or literary fantasies. I ate fried fish last night for the second time in four days, and then I wondered--is it really me that is so willing to be unhealthy in what I eat? The answer, of course, is yes. This is the real me--some things achieved, some things undone, some joy, some sadness, some moves forward, some steps back, perhaps, Lord Willing, more steps to take.
There's no point,really, in surrendering to it. It's just a matter of the next step to take.
