Y'all! I have lost my writing ju-ju. My thoughts are as substantial as Angelina Jolie's arms, which is to say- someone needs some sustenance!
I think I have leaked all of mine out for the moment. Given it away. I do not think that eating macaroni and cheese would help me, although it sure would not hurt Angelina Jolie.
I kept waking up last night with alarming thoughts such as, "I must clear off that area in the kitchen by the toaster! It's a mess!"
Who cares about the area in the kitchen by the toaster? Not even me. Not really.
I am thinking of my hen, Miss Flopsy who seems to be broody, which means she is sitting on the nest and will not get off and yesterday I found Miss Ozzie almost on top of her, tired of waiting for that particular nest and dammit, there is only ONE egg under Flopsy and if she intends to hatch that out, it's going to be a fool's errand.
Okay. I don't understand anything right now and I am running around in circles like a damn bulldog trying to catch its own stub of a tail for no apparent reason and I AM GETTING NOTHING DONE and am merely leaking more and more of anything that I may have had in reserve but this is not really depression, it's not really anxiety, it's just wonderment, really, at what it is I think I have to do and why.
It all seems so important and yes, I guess it is. Lines must be learned, costumes created, babies prepared for, groceries bought, meals made, laundry done, children tended, nests sat upon, etc., etc., etc.
But this is the way it always is. This is life. My life. Yours is probably similar although what wakes you up may not be the area by the toaster in your kitchen but the contract unsigned, the closet which you are afraid to open, the child whose grades are suddenly falling, the distance between you and your loved one in the bed, the squeal of brakes in your car, the outgrown shoes of your child- a million and one nagging worries that we all carry with us all of the time which prevent us from really sleeping or even really living or...writing.
I find myself wanting a new purse, which is ridiculous. I have at least forty-two purses, all of them beautiful and yet, none of them seems to suit me now, please me, whisper whatever purse magic it is that I love so much.
I think I just want a place to put all of my stuff. The stuff that wakes me, that bothers me, that annoys me as I rub up against it all day and all night. Also, the beautiful things I want to have with me at all times, the red fountain pen, the small notebook, the magic book reader which, if I have at hand, I can read almost anything in the world at any time from.
I want a soft place to put everything with a drawstring, perhaps, to pull tight and keep everything safely together inside.
No more a real answer than a bowl of macaroni and cheese and no more apt to change a damn thing.
Am I a bulldog chasing her tail? Am I a hen, sitting in paralysis on a nest for no good reason? Am I an old woman who needs to get off her ass?
At last- an answer to a question.
Yes. I am an old woman who needs to get off her ass.
Good morning, y'all. Good morning.