Patterns

My impulse to write has dwindled to nearly nonexistent. Not that I lack creative urges, but my drives tend toward cooking, knitting and especially weaving. The cause is obscure, but it may have something to do with contentment. My motivation around writing had become mildly desperate: I must write about the experience of a closeted gay evangelical Christian because the world needs this story before I die. These days I don't have that much to say. Instead I'm doing what I want. Sometimes I feel like writing a poem or two, usually not. I may resort back to writing when and if the pleasure can compare to that of weaving samples and exploring the loom.

Yesterday we went to see Hugo. It will probably be my favourite movie of the year, absolutely beautiful and worth seeing in 3D. The spirit of the story bears comparison to Chocolat but its fictional elements revolve around some factual early history of movies. It brought me to tears several times.