This is just to say

A colleague I hadn't seen in a while asked me this weekend if I was writing. I hate getting that question. I don't get it often, and I get it from the strangest people. Not that the people are strange, mind you, I mean it's often random folks I am not close with or see very often. So when they ask I often pause to think, "They must have thought it was cool/interesting, whereas others may give it that, 'oh, neat. Did you see Roche Bros. has chicken on sale?'" to the point where when the see me they remember and ask me about it. And then there is my dad. When my dad mentions it it really hits home. I turn into this puddle of mush who feels like a 5 year old who daddy wants the best for and did something that really made him proud, but is now just shoving it in the drawer with copies of Mozart's Requiem, and Beethoven's Mass in C. (Because I don't sing anymore either. Except in the car.)

My husband even prodded me once, and I had to tell him how much I appreciated him encouraging me, but that it was just too hard to explain, and I was blocked and frozen and I just had to walk away from it. Which is the truth. Just not completely all of it, but as I said it was hard to explain.

Why do they care? Why do they ask? (God I just got deja vu again. Have I blogged about this?) Do I have some destiny to fulfill or some obligation to write? Psychological translation: am I wasting a gift? I highly doubt that.

I can't even go back and read the stuff here I am so mortified. Not about the smutty aspect of it, but the whole "Mary Sue" thing.

Next week will kick off another nanowrimo. I did it once. I'm not sure if it can be made into a publishable work. But the whole idea of writing is now in the forefront of my concsious. Everything happens for a reason?

So I come here to write, even if it's just my thoughts. Because you were my muse. October 13th came and went, and I didn't come here. It snuck up on me. I wouldn't have even noticed at all, that's how well I am doing now, except for the news story that came out not too many days before hand. It was jarring. Only because I know how PR works. And what I believe I know of you. If it was you. In bed, in the the dark I mentally composed thoughts, but it just was never apropiate to come down and write them. I keep normal hours now. But I had to wonder, is it a bi-polar type of issue? "Manic" could certainly apply to you my dear. I remembered how in our first exchange I teased you about delusions of grandeur, and how you laughed. But you, you self proclaimed work-aholic, I thought you'd changed that with your backpack across the world and adventures in surfing, string theory, and airplanes. So is it something more organic?

I didn't see the film. I probably will at some point, on disc. I can't do it openly, some people have short memories about my so-called indiscretions. I am also afraid to watch. In the back of my mind will be this hope there is an Easter egg for me. And what's even stupider is that even if there is I will always question if I am just seeing what I want to see and it's just coincidence.

But if coincidences are just coincidences why do they seem so contrived? *snort*

But Karen saw what they thought was one. I read her post about it. The cow. And fuck, Sheila got a wallet and a pie plate signed, that's even more tangible. She's too funny, bless her heart, and Karen, etc. They never let go. But who am I to talk as I sit here and write about it?

My daughter came home, and talked about a poem they studied in class by William Carlos Williams. I was so thrilled. Her exercise was to write a similar poem, apologizing for something she dis that she wasn't really sorry for. Her response was to write about how she didn't do the assignment. I wish I could remember how it went, but her grasp of word play and irony is outstanding. And she's eleven! I am most proud.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold