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And that time came, when I had to play a role, again, on a stage. The comforting part was that I did not do it for myself, but for the ones who contributed to my long-term success.
A rather cold, windy day in Montreal.
I will get back to my readings tomorrow, even if the time will not allow me the luxury that I had in the last few weeks, when I did almost nothing but reading. One of the things that I dread the most is to finally face the reality of how much packing I have to do, and making some order in my bedroom, since the day D is getting closer and closer.
I have to find a subject to write for the next quarterly newsletter of my SLA chapter—finally, they responded to my yesterday’s email. I shall see what I can come up with. This is a good reason for me to write something of some interest, and in a frame of time that reminds me of those days at the library school when we had to come up, as fast as we could, with a reasonably well-written essay. More than that, writing forces me to associate my thoughts with words, in creative sentence patterns. Otherwise, those thoughts will never change into conceptual thinking: they will simply die, without even having the chance to meaningfully relate to other valuable written thoughts. Fainting memories.
