Me, I watched too many romantic comedies growing up. My brain is constantly occupied in the writing of an epic fairy tale of love, one that ends when I get my Princess Bride; or Winnie Cooper; or Meg Ryan (not so much a current fantasy, but still); or Annie Hall; or girl from Ferris Bueller's Day Off; or Maria (from West Side Story, only, you know, without the gang war and getting stabbed part); or etc... And on and on. You can have your God, and your fame, and your fortune, I'll take love. In my mind, love is the only fairy tale that even has an outside chance at ever coming true. Love gives me purpose.
Now, how, exactly, I am ever going to find and slay the mythical love beast of my fairy tale is another matter altogether. Up to this point, I am forced to admit I have been far too prone to follow that good old path of least resistance right where it inevitably leads - the land of loneliness and masturbation. Path of least resistance, hell, let's just call it what it is: Laziness. For, as much as I want love and dream about the fairy tale ending, I have been consistently lazy about trying to find it. Laziness does not breed love, my soul mate will not fall in my lap while I am not looking. I can attest. Further, even if I did get a magical lap dance of true love, I'd still need to work hard to nourish that love and keep it around. No, laziness and love simply do not mix. In fact, it is such a fragile, fleeting phenomenon, that even with the most dedicated care and devotion it sometimes withers and dies. Can you imagine if you are totally lazy about it? Loneliness and masturbation.
|Morty, age 48 hrs.|
|Morty, age 96 hrs.|
The Tartine method is not for the lazy home baker, it is a commitment (Oy!). I can't be lazy with him or he will die. I have to feed him, change him, and talk to him daily. OK, maybe I don't have to talk to him, but he appreciates the extra encouragement. Taking care of this thing is work... but all love is work, isn't it. The only kind of work I really have any honest ambition to do, in fact. If I can keep little Morty alive, maybe there is hope for me. Maybe I'll not be forever too lazy to find love in the form of an actual, living, human woman. I hope so. I hope Morty is the harbinger of a real change in my work ethic. A change that will bring me closer to my fairy tale ending. In the meantime, I have the love of a bread starter named after an old man. And that ain't bad.
Finally, let me take a moment to be serious. While I celebrated a birth, others were mourning a death. Recently, a young teacher I had subbed for many times slipped into a coma and died for no apparent reason. She was only 43, had three daughters, and was, by all accounts, a person who made the world a better place. I didn't know her, but we had emailed. I have emails from a dead woman on my computer screen right now... Jesus. Seize the fucking day, people. Seize the fucking day.