03/07/10
Where am I going now? I start classes in a nursing re-entry program on Wednesday, that I know. But where am I really going? As a writer, what direction will I take? I don’t want to write today, don’t have anything to say or any ways to be entertaining. I’m exhausted and cranky and need to nest after a frenetic trip to Savannah yesterday. Zoom-Zoom. Not enough time with anyone, not really. I dashed into Addie’s house to deliver birthday presents for her little brother Michael. I had to borrow some mascara because I left home without putting on any makeup. Then I swept in and out of Zona Rosa to leave some material with Rosemary. I got lost in downtown Savannah, but I eventually found myself. Dashing around makes me crazy and interferes with my focus. Wil had a solo in his orchestra’s performance. (He’s first chair oboe in the All State Orchestra for ninth and tenth graders). They were so good, I cried. I stared at Wil so intently that he went out of focus and I had to blink to make sure I was looking at the right face. I am proud of him and in awe of his talent. I cried some while we waited for his performance. I was wobbly and everyone who follows this blog will probably vomit if I say another word about being wobbly. Just take is as a given from now on. Some days I wobble, some days I don’t. The minute I got home last night, I stripped out of my clothes and put on the red sweater and some old plaid pajama bottoms. Wil and Lisa spent the night and that made me happy. I want to write a poem but poems are like burps or the hiccoughs for me. They just leap out of me. I want one to leap out now, but nothing is happening. I have a misguided idea that I need to post on my blog more often. What about today, when I don’t have anything to say? I’m tired but I don’t feel crazy. Red Flag. Am I sad? I could be, but I could be just tired. I miss Clint more than ever when I get this way, writing down that I don’t want to write anything down, then writing down a bunch of shit anyway. It’s a tangle of thoughts and feelings. I’m probably getting this way because I am listening to an audiobook of Madame Bovary. I shit you not. What do you suppose that says about me? That misery loves company, that I have some desire to punish myself just because I am alive? I tell myself that I'm listening for the language, the beauty of Flaubert's prose, but I think I really want to find someone more miserable than I. Shove in that knife a little farther, cj. Just do it. See how much you can bear. I haven't had cigarette in over a week and I ate a chocolate chip scone for breakfast.
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