Not the Transformer post I wanted to write--

"You need more confidence," he smirked with a laugh. There he sat with drink in hand, sloshing all over the table. We'll call him Ethan because I don't know any Ethans whom I could possibly insult with the following insight: Ethan was an ass.

And if having more confidence meant becoming (or, let's suggest "performing," even here) an ass to all those around me, I simply wanted no part of it. Even if the act of ass-ness is one route to power (i.e. power to act, power to gain and distribute resources that tend to boost the quality of life).

Yet, I knew deeply that Ethan had a point about my, er, lack. Or, could possibly have a point--I didn't know. Didn't want to think too much about it at the time. In fact the whole memory sort-of fades around that single moment like a soft-matted frame from a black and white film (admittedly, I remember in color, but black and white here sound more dreamy, more romantic). Have any studies been conducted on the way memory has been effected by film? Did people before the advent of film organize and shape their memories in the same way we do now? Another example: if I take snap shots of certain events, say Christmas morning, my memory is absolutely framed by those pictures as the years progress. Like Plato suggests with writing, perhaps film and photography have become crutches to our memory. Where was I?

Circles. Helene Cixous asks me to write my body as she laughs from the pages--what would she say about confidence? What has she said? I staggered over her pages again before a long long nap this afternoon. When I awoke, I had an email asking me if I'd be interested in running a writing center . . .

Writing? Ironically, I haven't written in so very very long. Why? Stagnant, I suppose. Meaning life events worth writing about. How I don't know. A child wants a bedtime story, papers to grade, courses to design, love to be made, shamrocks to transplant, friends to be called and be laughed with, cried with. It's just that I can't place the tip of my finger on this strange, yet all too familiar, iridescent puddle I'm staring at; I can only see the vibrant colors, the beauty of, well, gasoline across the surface if I tilt my head a certain way . . . Perhaps I've had a neck cramp. The colors which seem to have evaporated must still be there. Just my angle makes the whole puddle seem like mud. No not mud; again, that just sounds good--but certainly not mud. Just a bit, shhh, dull.

And please, don't believe for a moment that I'm not deeply bothered and saddened by the priveleged use of the word "dull"; not that I haven't struggled to become so.