Calendars are everywhere, on google, phone, paper by the computer, paper in the kitchen, and one for each organization I belong to. A collated mess of dates and appointments are distinguished in various colors and graphics. Keeping track of time must have been a real necessity from the time we came down from the trees and roamed the savannas.
And yet, even with all the doctors and specialists' visits, writing and responding on blogs, running organizations whose activities keep different calendars than my household's, I do not chronicle my life much. I seem to pretend that it is self evident, and who in their right mind wants to know that I skipped dinner last night?
You just have to read Zadie Smith, and you will realize how these stupid details in your life can account for so much of its meaning, or lack of it.
I've been reading NW by Zadie Smith, and everything I know about writing is being challenged.
No wonder that the only thing my husband wanted to do during our visit in Boston was to eat at No Name Restaurant.