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Sunday, March 7, 2010

Zoom-Zoom Stream of Crazy


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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