This is an experiment. I don't know how long I'll do this, but a post I wrote a while ago gave me an idea: write about Nannie. I want to say that I'll post a weekly diary, but I doubt that. That said, I'm scared I'm starting to forget her. So I need to write something.
Sometimes I sit and try to figure out how I got here, this excruciating arid land of the life of the mind, this place where fun comes to die. I always tell folks that I went to graduate school for all wrong reasons: I didn't want a job, didn't know what I wanted to do, didn't think I'd make a very good lawyer. All I knew is that I liked to read books; it's the only thing I ever did consistently. Piano lessons? I hated to practice. I quit. Basketball? I hated playing defense. I quit. Trombone? A 2nd grade experiment gone bad. I quit. But reading? I always did that. I'd finish the public library's summer reading challenge in a couple of weeks. My Uncle Parnell had to have been fed up with escorting me to and from my local branch. He was always really nice about it, though. I wanted to walk by myself, but my moms wasn't having it. Our trips wouldn't have been so frequent if they would've let me check out more than two books. Looking back, I understand my moms trepidation about sending her first born out into the 'hood alone, but I knew my avuncular walking buddy would have preferred to have been playing ball at McMillen Park than wait for my prepubescent ass to check out The Westing Game AGAIN.
