I'm so surprised to find more; Always surprised to find more: 2.4.10

As I hunker down in full nesting mode to prepare for the mega snowstorm of the century, I have to keep yanking myself back by the scruff of the neck. No! Quit it! Ow! Just quit sulking already.

It's not getting me anywhere or anyone, for that matter. But it's all but impossible to stop it.

Have you ever felt like you're absolutely lousy at everything? I feel utterly dopey at work. I don't seem to be very engaged in too much else though. Is this an acute case of SAD, or something deeper? Should I be concerned?

Actually, I'm not. Concerned that is. Maybe this is a healthy approach to reaching some new tipping point that I so desperately need.

Other than a sunset flyby of the Rockies' eastern front range that left me dumbstruck and a little coffee catch-up with B. that fit neatly into the teensy corner of time I had to myself in Denver, this week has consisted of me sitting through seemingly interminable meetings with the same old soundtrack circling at the back of my brain. Is this really what I'm supposed to be doing? Is this making me feel good about how I spend my time? What am I actually doing? Really. What is it I am doing in actuality?

Periodically in my line of work, these pesteringly annoying terms arise and go through a period of intense verbal overcirculation. A while back, it was "planful." You go to meetings and that's all anybody is talking about. Let's be planful. Is this planful? Oh dear. Then it was "impactful." Ooh, that makes we wince. And right now, it's "articulate." As in, "What I hear Bob articulating..." or "I want to articulate such and such boring idea..." Really? We can't just say..."say?"

I'm struggling to articulate my disgust here. These ridiculous semantics just add to the whole frustrating subtext of my little soundtrack.

Anyway, this is just one of those placeholder thought rambles. I wanted to write all about the passing of old J.D. Salinger last week. About how he is probably the reason so many kids get tricked into thinking they will be writers, but how that's not necessarily a bad thing. What he did is to give complete validation and credence to the notion that you at 16 may have a reason to write down your thoughts at all. He gives voice to that voice that we are all so desperate to...uh, articulate at that age. Holden Caulfield catalyzed us and turned us all legitimate, made us all real-time correspondents of adolescence. So, I thank him for that. Even as he crystalized into the permanent formation of required 10th grade reading-list bedrock, like a living Old Man in the Mountain, I'd like to thank him for that.

I wanted to write about that last week, but tonight is honestly the first chance I've had since then to retreat from the work of preparing for planful meetings and articulate some impactful thoughts of my own. So, thank you, dear snowstorm, thank you for that.