i set fire to the rain

The boy has been playing that Adele song repeatedly for the last two days, and it's been such a gloomy day today with all the rain and cold hovering outside that it just seems appropriate. It's been the strangest week for me - I find myself stressed and burdened with the knowledge of problems I cannot fix.

But February is almost over. That is some solace at least. March always promises to bring good news, or at least a brighter aspect to my life in relief from the persistent sadness that pervades February's character.

I'm writing again. I've been very inconsistent the past year, and have neglected my journal and this blog - which I do often. But the fact that many of my friends have taken up their own blogs has inspired me to return here to see if I can make sense of what direction I would like to take from this point on. An old friend told me a while ago they enjoyed seeing my own writing here, which I'm still somewhat shy about because of that nagging self-consciousness that nothing I write is really worth reading. But a creative writing class I took last semester definitely helped develop my confidence, so perhaps I will post a little more often. And I would like to discuss the books I read, though not necessarily in a formalized book review sort of way. I just like good writing, and would like to share those passages I come across that I find particularly compelling.

Currently, I've been reading Margaret Atwood's Blind Assassin off and on since the new semester began. During Christmas break I was able to read a lot of books within a short period of time, but I really do like to allow myself time to digest Margaret Atwood fully, and so I find myself trying to fit in a chapter or two between the mountain of reading and work I have for school. I came across a paragraph or two that really seemed poignant to me, but I don't want to overwhelm myself in ambitiousness with this first post back and will share and discuss it in the future.

Besides reading, I'm scrambling to figure out my future. This time next year I will be a college graduate, which is both exciting and terrifying. I'm attempting to ignore that for now, though. The summer is what is proving to be an obstacle. So far, I've applied for four different internships at publishing companies in Nashville and New York, and am contemplating applying to three separate internships with PR firms in Atlanta. I haven't heard back from any of them given that it is so early in the year, but I'm still waiting in eager anticipation until the end of March. Wish me luck, amigos.

I suppose that is enough to inundate you with for the time being. Until next time (there will be a next time, promise).

the whole world is moving, but i'm standing still

In this whole unpacking and repacking debacle that has taken over the living room, I managed to find my travel journal from the last time I ventured across the pond. The first entry was an observation of my flight experience. Here it is, redundancies, non sequiturs, and general fluffy formal language included:

July 28, 2008 Atlantic Ocean

I'm wondering if I can trick my body into rest if I just close my eyes and pretend to sleep. but my mind will not sleep; it remains aware of the engine hum and the little girl behind me whose periodic burst of upset are a a constant reminder that it is not the middle of the night to my inner clock. I cannot force the cluster of thoughts in my brain that bounce off its imagined walls waiting for attention to be paid them to settle until the sun pokes up its bright head. They win my hand and here I am, up with the people contentedly watching their in-flight movies, unbothered by the fact that in a few hours their inner clocks will go haywaire with frantic confusion because it is not the time it is supposed to be. Maybe we should all take a note from the Mad Hatter and smash the clocks to pieces and serve them to each other with jam and butter.

the plane windows are cold with the breath of night. The wings are flashing red light beams into the sky, silent signals to the stars, which will never receive our communication because millions of years is too long and the light is too feeble to be of much consequence. It is a weird thing, to be at an even level with the sky, to have something substantial miles beneath you. I used to think heaven was in the clouds, where God and His angels frolicked joyfully, but now I see that he has hidden His kingdom well beyond the reach of man. Heaven will never be a most-desired vacation resort for the well-travelled journeyman.

Restlessness, and nothing else to write of. Maybe now I can force my mind to be still and conform the the ever-changing time zones. Good night.

Expect a longer, more personal entry soon. There has been a lot to reflect upon these past two weeks.

and so i tell myself that i'll be strong

Disappointments.

I've had a couple of those lately. People have disappointed me. I've disappointed other people. I've disappointed myself.

It's been a strange couple of months for me. And while that is no excuse, it's true. I still don't think I've quite recovered from February. You know when people talk about digging a hole you can't get out of? I think February did it for me; it dug an emotional hole that I can't seem to crawl completely out of even now. And it's one of those things that seems to have affected other aspects of my life. Bad things happen. And I'm usually one to get over them. But sometimes, I think, blows like the ones February dealt me can manifest as something unexpected. I feel somewhat shut down. In March and April I felt like I was constantly overcoming some unknown distance between people and school and while it got better, I think I could have done more. And in not doing more, I think I suffered disappointment. I let someone down; I didn't live up to their expectations. I didn't do. And that's not who I am. Now I have to suffer the consequences and lose something that I once took a lot of pride in having.

I'm disappointed in myself. But I guess it's something I'll have to accept.

And it's not just myself that's disappointed me. Other people have too.

I remember writing a post a while back where I expounded on how a change in the nature of a relationship inexplicably changed the way someone behaved. It was a perplexing thing to me. I understand that things change, I never question that. But unless something really significant happened to change things, I don't understand why communication between two people has to completely break down into passive-aggressiveness, sporadic meaningless conversation, and the occasional emotional outburst that yields real talk. Maybe I just need to learn not to hope so much on other people? I don't want to do that, but perhaps it's time for me to really accept that not everything works out the way I would like it to. People can't be controlled, people won't always act as they should. And yes, changing the intimacy of a relationship invariably changes the way people treat each other. I wish this was not the case. However, I know that the way a person treats their friends should not be inconsistent from one person to another. If I did nothing to deserve rudeness, I feel like I shouldn't receive it. My patience can only last so long when taken advantage of.

One specific incident spurred that last rant, but it's a frustration of mine that can be universally applied to every lost friendship I've ever had. It's a disappointing thing.


Last night's exercise in breaking free of writer's block seems to have worked. Also, it's an overcast day and my hopes of spending Sunday in the park were dashed by cold weather. And gloomy days tend to my affect my mood to the point where I cannot be content unless I'm listening to sad music and doing nothing with my day. Maybe it's stir-craziness; I just have to make it through the week, and then I will once more be reunited with my Ogle-family for the summer.

Also, a new haircut is in the future. Something different. I'm nervous and excited at the same time. So my life is not all disappointments and bad moods. It just always seems to be pertinent to talk about on the blog. I'll do better, I promise.

if it were up to me, i would leave it up to you

It's a Saturday night. I just enjoyed a day full of writing and reading Young Adult novels for work followed by an evening double feature at the drive-in: Bridesmaids and The Adjustment Bureau. Despite my incessant need to converse about The Adjustment Bureau's commentary on the concept of predestination and its implications on free will and the human race, the boy and I agreed that getting out of the apartment was necessary; our Friday night consisted of me curled up on the couch watching a Star Wars "making of" documentary while he played World of Warcraft...how delightfully nerdy of us.

To be fair though, I've needed to just relax. After exams ended I was only allowed a few days of break before I started my internship at Peachtree Publishers. As of Monday, I am their editorial intern, sequestered in a back office with pen in hand and eyes at the ready, poised to tackle the thousands of unsolicited manuscripts would-be children's authors send in every day.my surprise, some manuscripts have been sitting in kitty litter smell for almost a year now. Reading (and most of the time, rejecting) this "slush" has been the bulk of my job so far. However, I do get a lot of time on and off duty to read what the company has published before, which has been very enjoyable, even if most of the titles are not my usual reads. This first week, however, has been eye-opening as an aspiring writer - I, the lowly intern doing the job for free, wields the power of judgment in deciding whether or not you are even worthy of possible consideration as a published author. Woah. That sucks for the hopeful writers out there.

But leaving that rather bleak note there, I have been slowly adjusting to apartment living. It's nice to have a real kitchen for once; I think I'll be sad to leave it once school starts again and I move back into the dorms. Cooking for myself has been a challenge in buying grocery in bulk and at reasonable prices. I think the summer, however, will be a good lesson for me in money management. I definitely need it.

I'm not sure what the purpose of this post was. I've had the itch to write for a few days now, and I'm hoping that maybe this will help get me through the writing dry spell.

Maybe that's a point in itself.

i love the view from up here.

“We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” - Dr. Seuss

I find that quote especially applicable to life right now. February is finally over, and I have high hopes for March.

It's just that first I must re-assimilate back into life. Agnes of God is finally over, and I'm only now realizing how much of myself I put into it. I'm proud of my performance, but in the aftermath I find myself a bit exhausted and a little distant from my friends. It's weird how life goes on in my absence; it's given me so many surprises. I was vain and just assumed that everyone would wait for me until I came back, but I'm realizing now that's not the case and that I, obviously, am not the center of everyone's world. Not that I really believed that, but it's been an odd week. I miss everyone, and I hope the adjustment won't be too painful.

Writing is coming easier.

i'm always in this twilight, ruminating.

The worst is over. Thank God. I can breathe again.

Well, not really. I have a cold and therefore can only breathe through one nostril.

But now that the day has passed, I feel like I can return to normal again. The year mark was supposed to be the milestone. It's supposed to be easier from now on, right? Time slowly heals all things. But I also feel like time pulls us away and makes us forget. I don't want to forget.

I suppose that's why I write. I go back to my old journals sitting in my closet often to see if I discover anything new. And I can remember the moment I wrote each poem, each bit of prose, each story. I remember exactly what I was thinking, exactly what I was feeling consciously and unconsciously when I put the pen to paper. I don't forget things easily. Maybe it's because I write so much. I can never truly let anything go. All my memories are immortalized in ink, and I prefer it that way. Writing shows me who I was, who I am, and sometimes even glimpses into who I will be. I don't think a lot of people have that.

I mean, I know that our memories aren't often completely truthful, that we reflect back on the past with bias and edit ourselves. And while writing in the moment or about a moment also brings with it my emotional biases, I like to think I have an accurate record of my life that I can refer to. I like that.

Which is why it frustrates me that I haven't been able to write. I'm afraid if I don't write I won't remember this brief period of my life, which I feel is rather important for me to remember. Everything is important for me to remember.

Even the mundane things.

Even the moments that cause me pain.

say hello, wave goodbye.

What a week this has been. But I'm glad to say I'm smiling more and dwelling less. Bittersweet. Saying goodbye always is.

I have a paper due Monday, but I'm finding it difficult to come up with motivation. I just want to curl up in bed and watch Boston Legal. I need to get rid of all this unproductive laziness.

I really hate when I have the urge to write but find I have nothing to say. For that, I offer up something I wrote in my journal Wednesday, when I was decidedly more somber:

I can't give a genuine smile
unless someone pulls a laugh
from my overcast heart.
Lethargy prevails in the aftermath.
A funk pervades my countenance.
It seems so effortless to pretend,
but I don't desire to put on
two different hats and two different masks.
Happiness is a brief thing
that occurs in random spurts.
But it is fleeting, unfortunately;
I can't seem to grasp it,
capture it in my fingers and hold on tight.
But my grip would be desperate.
I cannot sink so low;
my pride will not allow me to need.

uncle richard

The guitar.

A quiet corner

in a house full of merry holiday noise.

You, the patient teacher,

your wrinkled, veiny fingers

curling around the neck

and plucking out notes

one by one.

You were old then,

and I so young.

You're gone now,

a mere memory in so little time.

And that guitar sits

collecting dust in a quiet corner.

I've neglected it.

And now that you're gone,

I fear I'll forget all the notes,

I'll forget how to play

that familiar tune.

If it's true,

I'll have disappointment to add

to the sadness.

My Great Uncle Richard died yesterday. Among all my memories, my favorite was the one Christmas he taught me Ode to Joy on the guitar, and it remains the only thing I know how to play.

I dislike February so far.

Ever singing march we onward, victors in the midst of strife. Joyful music lifts us Son-ward in the triumph song of life...

my own personal waterloo.

I can't sleep. What a surprise. I'm lingering in the early hours of the morning before my final exam of the semester. My alarm clock is blinking 10:40 at me, which is wrong, because I haven't bothered to reset it since the power went out last. I have (mostly clean) clothes strewn about the floor that I haven't picked up and sorted yet from Thanksgiving break. It seems almost pointless to do anything about them now; they'll just end up stuffed in a bag for home on Friday.

Weird. I don't want this semester to end. I don't want to go home. If I could just opt out of Winter Break and stay cuddled up in my bed in Atlanta for a month, I would. Even if no one else was around. I could read and write all day. I miss being able to do that regularly. I haven't written a word since November, and I haven't touched my journal since before then. It's so strange developing a personality away from an object that seems to have been one of my defining characteristics for so long. It brings up some interesting questions as to why that is, but I'm not sure that's a question I want to answer. Maybe it was a security thing, something to keep myself hidden away in at one point that I really have no need for anymore.

But having to go home for the break brings up all my old awkwardness and irritates those long-held insecurities that I don't really fit in. I don't really want to be reminded of high school; I left it behind for a reason. And it doesn't necessarily help that those who I once considered close friends seem to have all but forgotten me. While I say it doesn't really bother me, at some unconscious level it does.

But then again, maybe the break will be a good thing. It's a chance to alleviate tension, for one thing. There's been a lot of it building up for a while now that I think would be good to get away from. It's like a balloon ready to pop. If I leave it alone for long enough, perhaps it will deflate on its own. Plus, some people I'd lost touch with recently resurfaced for a get-together, so maybe that will be a good thing. We'll see; I remain wary.

I think I have grown into this dislike of breaks since coming to college. For me, Oglethorpe contains my second family; I don't like being away from them for so long, especially when I feel like the only thing waiting for me at home is loneliness and a long marathon of my favorite Disney movies. Thinking positively though, alone time is always a necessity, and who doesn't love Disney movies?

Perhaps this break could be spent productively, minimizing all the clutter (literally and figuratively) in my life and getting it organized. I could learn to be less over-analytical, a nasty habit that often sends me spiralling violently back into those somewhat comfortable high school girl insecurities. I could finally finish the books I've been reading in short spurts for the past few months. I could get back into the habit of writing regularly; I could actually finish something for once instead of starting something and leaving it. I could learn to sew - that skill always comes in handy.

But I guess I'm really just anxious for the break to be over, if I'm going to be honest. Next semester promises to be full of both Shakespeare and Jane Austen with my two favorite professors. Being employed as a Writing Center Tutor again is also exciting; it's so nice to get paid for a job I love. Also, next semester is when I commence my search for an internship - wish me luck in that respect, it's rather daunting. Theatre-wise, once the semester starts up, I jump right in to what I think will be a very challenging but very rewarding role in Agnes of God, and I'm collaborating on a production of The Vagina Monologues to go up in March.

Perhaps I should just focus on the present. My ambition and excitement for the future won't help the issues I'm facing at the moment. I should focus on getting through this last exam tomorrow afternoon and keeping all the conflicting philosophies of Aristotle and Hobbes and Locke and Rousseau and St. Augustine in order.

Oh well, this is what I get for going to a liberal arts school. Silly me.

may 19, 2010

Forgive the lack of creativity with a title. I’ve been in recovery mode for the past week and a half.

It’s a natural process, time taken at the start of the summer to just…recover. From everything. I guess I never noticed it before, this obligatory period of recuperation – perhaps this is because this time a lot of things seem to have piled up in my mind that I subconsciously stowed away for this very moment to sift through. A lot of things have happened since I last thought to update.

But I’m going to have to leave you in the dark about the exact nature of these things. Essentially, they are in the past and don’t particularly matter anymore. I shouldn’t waste my energy explaining the details and then getting myself worked up again. I’m exhausted enough.

But the good thing about recovering is that I’ve written a lot more. Not only have I been neglectful to the blog, but my poor journal has had to suffer through almost three months of empty pages. That is my fault. I got caught up in other things and lost focus on improving my writing and getting my ideas on paper.

And I come back here wondering what my intent was in the first place, starting a blog. I believe it was to share my college experiences. I realize I did very little of that. I tried, but there is something very stilted, very awkward, about reliving events for others in the form of written word. I feel strange sharing details of my personal life in this medium…I feel exposed. I feel like I should have been writing letters from camp, explaining all the things I’m doing and the people I’m meeting and how much fun I’m having and so on and so forth. It feels somewhat forced and disingenuine.That’s not what it should be to me. And I realize that I would do better if I wrote more about my reactions to people and events and the things I see and read. I think that would be more suited to my style.

And so I start with a random bit of prose from my journal today that sums up how this week and a half has been for me:

She covered herself with night and drifted through the house on soundless feet. She went through all the rooms and in the dark her presence echoed against the floor and the walls and the ceilings as if they were all blank and empty. She danced naked in front of the windows and no one stopped to watch her because they were all asleep and thinking of nothing. She talked to someone who wasn’t there in the sitting room where all sorts of formal conversations took place, saying things she never said aloud before. She pulled the sheets from her bed and stalked the shadows in makeshift garb, a pretty young thing whose veneer of strong calm had cracked and who was afraid to she she could be anything less than composed. She hid away her memories in a box and burned them in the bathtub and washed the ashes down the drain. She collapsed on the stairs and sobbed for an uncountable number of minutes and the house in shades of blue wept with her. And when the sun came up she stood in the kitchen with a smile on her face.

Recovery can be difficult sometimes. But I think part of it may be because I feel so out of place back at home. I’m not surrounded all the time with the people I’ve come to consider my second family, who all know me and can help me in recovering in a way my friends from back home and my family cannot. But having to go it alone makes me stronger, I hope. It makes me realize that I don’t always have to rely on other people to get me through tough times. And in a way, hitting the publish button at the end of this and sending myself out into the internet world is helpful.

And when I go back to Atlanta and bury myself in class and books and what remains of my second family, the recovery process will end.

Hehe, I just turned up the volume on my computer and R.E.M.’s “Everybody Hurts” was playing. How appropriate, no?

Expect more frequent updates, those whose tone will hopefully be of a happier nature. I hate for you all to think I’m some sad, overly pensive writer. Because while at times I am, that’s not the person I generally strive to be.

breaking through the funk in the morrison hotel.

I’m enjoying this Monday. I’ll attribute it to the fact that it’s warm and sunny today and not simply to the fact that I have no class after 1:30. After my weekend, I feel I deserve a chance to enjoy listening to The Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues” while cleaning up my room and sorting laundry.

Not that my weekend was particularly bad. Friday and Saturday I helped out with Oglethorpe’s Scholarship Weekend, so I met a lot of prospective freshman. And while it was very fun, it gets exhausting having the same conversation with twenty different people. Then my Sunday was just one of those days where I woke up in a funk I just couldn’t get out of. Play therapy with adorable puppies at the pet store and picnicking on Jessica’s floor with Chinese take-out were the highlights of a rather miserable rainy day though. I’m so thankful for my friends. All of them.

The song is now “Land Ho!” and I’ve transferred my first load to the dryer. I’m now going to take a moment to reflect on the fact that it now takes me $1.50 to do one load of laundry instead of the $1.00 it took a few months ago.

Moment’s over. The song now is “Queen of the Highway.”

I should probably take some time out to read. For tomorrow’s classes I: have to finish Remains of the Day, have to read chapters out of Don Quixote, and have to make myself familiar with various tools used in stagecraft. But instead, I’m blogging and looking up the lyrics to David Gray’s “This Year’s Love,” which quite accurately reflect my romantic situation at the moment.

Which is another explanation to my Sunday funk. But I don’t really want to go into that. I don’t do well with bad moods.

Maybe I should grab my journal and venture out onto the quad and plop myself into one of the big adirondacks and just write. I’ve been neglectful recently. Shame on me for slagging on one of my New Year’s Resolutions. And it’s so pretty outside too.

Once “Maggie M’Gill” is over, I’ll do just that.

After I transfer my last load over to the dryer.

and so it begins.

A new year. A new semester. Like a stack of presents waiting to be opened. There’s something so overwhelming about it; I have the need to take my time unwrapping and savor each moment. That I’ve arrived back at Oglethorpe and seen most of my friends and sat through my French class hasn’t completely sunk in. Maybe I’m waiting for things to be set in motion.

That must be it.

I am so glad to be back here, back at home. It is home. Even my parents recognize that. I’ve learned to stop correcting myself, clarifying that Oglethorpe and home are the same thing, because it seems as if everyone already knows and understands. I suppose that’s what college does to you. And now that I’m here, everything seems to be falling into position. Nothing seems to have really changed significantly about this place and these people I left a month ago (with the exception of the snow on the ground and the ice on the sidewalks).

It’s as if I’m just picking up exactly where I left off – I’m waiting to see if that will end up being a good thing or not. There’s still that idea of the clean state at the beginning of a new year, starting fresh with people; no expectations still lingering from the last time you saw them. I think that seems like the best attitude to take, don’t you think? I’ll try it and see how it works out. It could be my official New Year’s Resolution, since I really never got around to making one.

And while I’m at it, I’ll make some more:

I resolve to write more. I attempted to do that during my month-long break, but it only happened sporadically. I know I shouldn’t force it, but getting into the habit is better than coming back to my journal every few days or so. And maybe updating the blog will help.

I resolve to read more. I brought two bags of books back with me. Makes sense that I should get through some of them before the semester ends.

And, I resolve to be more patient. Things won’t always work out the way I would like them to, so why fight it?

 

That’s all I have for the moment. Lunch is calling. But really, what more could I add?

a product of wasted time.

I finished a journal the other day. It tends to be a monumental occasion when I finish a journal. It’s like starting a new chapter, or shedding my skin that’s been a part of me for so long. It’s like discarding an old friend after you’ve grown so close, painful. But also necessary. Like they know too much about you and you need to distance yourself.

I have complicated relationships with inanimate objects, if you can’t tell.

I could try to recall how many journals I’ve accumulated, but I lost count after I stopped labeling them. I think it just started out one day as I attempted to write my great fantasy story and then eventually grew bored with it and branched out into other writing. One day I’ll just sit and read through them all and rediscover myself as I grew up. I know my writing will have changed and matured as I did. And it will be interesting to see what I wrote about and the memories they trigger. There are just some instances where I love looking back at the past – they don’t occur very often. Not that I don’t like my past or have anything against it, I just guess I prefer the present or something similarly cliche and alliterative.

Boredom gives you more time to think. How potentially dangerous. I should be doing something productive with all this time I’m wasting, like wrapping Christmas presents, or actually buying them. I only have four days left, though technically I have until mid-January to scrounge them together.

I love how I use the word ‘scrounge.’

My immediate next thought was on on how strange it sounds in my head. Say it out loud. Now.

So forget the actual tangent I was going to go on. Thinking about it makes me feel like I am a horrible person. Which I’m not.

I hope.

Oh boredom. Darn you.

“I have a joke. A squirrel goes up to a tree and says ‘I forgot to store acorns for the winter and now I am dead.’ It’s funny because the squirrel gets dead.” I love UP, for the record. And my friends.

I only see in shades of grey.

So here I sit, typing by the light of the lamp in my bathroom because I am so considerate at 1:15 in the morning and don’t want to disturb the cat that has taken over my bed by turning on the light. I believe she senses the eminence of my departure and therefore feels comfortable to lay where she pleases. Recently, it has been my pillow space.

That is how I am explaining my being up this late. It’s either that or admitting the number of Dr. Peppers I drank today (two; I’m cutting back). There isn’t anything I can do about it now, so I go back to what I always do when I’m this late and write. I don’t feel like grabbing the pen and my journal, so I neglect it for tonight and reach for my laptop because I feel this blog isn’t updated with as much frequency as I had intended when I first started.

I’m rambling. I should probably do this update right.

Sunday was my eighteenth birthday. Nothing too terribly exciting. Spent the day with my family and the boyfriend, nothing much to tell. I did have a very delicious Oreo cake though. Yummy. Can you tell the reality of turning eighteen hasn’t hit me yet? (So-called)Important things never really hit me as I experience them, they tend to slowly seep in for me to realize much much later. Good thing? Bad thing? Or nothing at all.

Yeah. We’ll go with that.

I feel like I’m starting this countdown a little late: eight more days until I leave for Oglethorpe. I probably should have started this in June? Oh well.

Believe me, I am excited, I just need to stop blogging in the early morning hours after I spend my night watching Star Wars on Spike and discovering that episodes of My So-Called Life are on Hulu. Waste of time? I think not. Bad for display of human emotions? I think so.

I suppose I will do a more convincing job of relaying of the excitement and anticipation I feel about finally going to college at a later date and more convenient time of the day.

I should kick the cat out of the bed and get some sleep. Expect me to update more often.

A Midsummer Night’s Musings

Ah, July. It seems that my summer of limbo is passing by so fast.

Only two weeks ago I was running around Charleston with four of my friends in celebration of our new-found freedom. Now I sit at home every day and prepare.

Prepare for what, exactly? In less than two months I will be arriving on a college campus with (almost) everything I own in tow. Slowly, my living room accumulates more and more stuff. The imminence of college lies heavy on my house.

Not to say that this is a particularly somber time…I am very excited. It’s just knowing that I will soon be experiencing entirely new and different things that makes me restless and anxious for it.

But I feel mostly that I’m preparing to leave. My father and I finally have some time to spend together and I am reminded of how well we get along and how much I am going to miss our sarcastic repartees across the dinner table that drive my mother to roll her eyes and groan her displeasure.

For some reason I don’t feel I can communicate all of these feelings effectively. They all come out so flat and the words get all jumbled up somewhere in between my brain and my fingers. None of it is transferring well here. It must be connected to this recent dry spell in my writing, but nobody wants to hear about that.

I have to be ambitious. Words don’t write themselves.

You can tell it’s getting rather late and my mind is wandering this way and that, seamlessly flowing from one thought to the next.

I should probably stop now. Hehe.