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The urge to incessantly engage in current events has never had much pull on me. Like most folks, I try to play a part in society, and live a life somewhat shaped by my value to others. But rushing to make a comment in the moment seems destined to make no lasting mark. I prefer other strains of immediacy. Emotional, like the kind we offer by being quick to love with no return expectations. Artistic, like what I attempt every day with words and pictures. An individually defined existence still cares about others, and that care means I want to reach folks who deeply disagree with my views. I'm not an activist or a reporter, I'm a reacher — hands out hoping that someone else takes hold of them. Some writers balk at the notion that those with hateful beliefs would be blithely enjoying their work. But I hope they are, because I came from a buttoned-down background in deep need of empathy. When I was younger, I wouldn't go near someone who challenged my childhood teachings out-right. Even once I grew out of preachers preaching to the choir, I certainly wasn't looking for new choirs. Good art got me good in the end. Movies that told honest stories, songwriters possessing enough honesty to shake my heart. They challenged my mindset subtly, made me more understanding of others unlike me — and by extension, more loving. So that's why I never address current events. In deference to my younger self — and the good that was in him, scared to come out.
April 13, 2025
Clementsvale, Nova Scotia
Year 18, Day 6363 of my daily journal.
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Kelly, our Madame Arcati, has wondered aloud several times why the oldest member of the cast spends the most time on the floor.