My son just woke up from a six hour nap. My son who won’t quite drink or eat or sleep enough to really kick this cold. Usually we wake him up from a nap before it gets too late but I was hoping he would sleep through the night. Now I’m starting Toy Story at 9:30 at night. I don’t care, as long as he gets healthy.
Do any of you remember when I called myself a disaffected poet fashionista? It was ages ago, but it does somehow describe me (though the “fashionista” is tongue in cheek. Sort of). I’m also ages overdue to get back to that.
I get the impression that only a percentage of me is showing at any given time. That’s true of everyone but… I’m going to try an experiment. I’m going to try not holding back so much. I mean, on this blog, writing wise.
I am a poet. It is an essential part of my being. And I always feel like I’m revealing a dirty secret if I say it. Like I’m introducing myself in AA, and I should be recovering.
I know I spend too much time in my head… but there’s rollercoasters in there, and a carnival of divas in drag, throbbing metaphors in the sweet-acid ichor, and chocolate everything.
You can talk a lot and still not break through. You can sit back and visualize all day and have a barrier all unknowing.
Because the thing is… I miss my art. I want to infuse it more in my life. No more “saving it up.” To quote Fred Baby.
Which means you might have to read a few more entries like this shit.
– the weirdgirl