SOMEONE I ONCE KNEW

She trailed the group, mostly mute, blue-eyed, an occasional smile. The boys (boys back then, men now) yammered, preened, talked smart, and drank. She observed. Seemed concerned about her shoes, and then some. As smart as I assumed she was, she was easy to overlook, but I don't regret my mistake. I could not have heard her whispers. She seemed a sidekick. I was a newcomer. Two quiet girls with loud boys. We got on with our lives.

Now she has a blog.

Rapt, I discover she has a heart, she has a daughter, she has eyes, (with which she sees) she has God.

She is truly a poet.

She has a voice. A clear, confident voice.

She was married, and, I think, divorced. Writing her life without mention of her daughter's dad. I knew him -- one of the loud boys. Is he really as absent as he seems, or is his absence a vital part of her story? His silence is relief.

What is her story? It involves the importance of chores and the comfort of song.

She lives in the middle of nowhere, and she is capable. She takes pictures and dances.

Her blog life is crafted, carefully edited. Lenses are switched, pains swiftly glossed over. Days end meaningfully.

All this art not to be confused with reality.

But the reality is -- she writes every single day.

ACHE.

I don't know how to write. 

I have never really known how to write.

Maybe loving words, and the desire and ability to 

know how to shakily string them together

is more curse than blessing. 

Never is it "look, a grey day,

I see it with my eyes."

It's stress about about how to

capture/encapsulate/transform and/or translate that grey day into something 

you can see,

something you can be inspired by, 

into something better/more than it actually is. (What it is

is good, so good, so very, very good

but not good enough.)

I must make it make you ache.

My grey day (the one outside my window now) has to make you (yes, you!) ache.

(Otherwise fuck you, and fuck you, grey day!)

And if I write about the grey day and you write about the grey day...

I have to write about the grey day better than you write about the grey day. 

And better than you write about the grey day. 

And especially better than how YOU write about the grey day. Because YOU write really well, and really quickly and a whole lot of people know it, and everyone tells you so, and I basically hate you for that, and I hate me for that, because I am jealous and petty. So I say screw you and screw me and screw writing (again and again and again) and 

suddenly it's ten years and hundreds of South Park episodes later.

I have no idea what you're doing because you're long gone, but

I know what I'm doing and I'm long gone. 

I can wonder about what you didn't do, but I know exactly 

what I didn't do.  

So there. 

Wait.

A JULY LIFE

I can't play it cool around Summer.

Here I am! Here I am! Summer, Summer! Look, Summer! Summer! Summer! I'm here! Over heeeeere! Summer, we're both here, and you won't look at me, and even though you just got here, I know you're already getting ready to leave...

It's been / I've been that way -- a blue-grey, anxious, nothing's quite right way -- these past few months. Lost, longing, lightly crusted in funk.

However, I'm not mired, I'm not wallowing: with lots of deep breaths and sighs, I tap, tap, tap the dullness away with thwacks of television, consumerism, random busy-ness.

Then ambivalence returns. Sets its jaw. Gnaws.

I glance over, nod my head, complete my chores regardless.

I keep myself going: cooking, "homemaking," working out, playing with dogs, reading, and, of course, working.

My hope is that July brings more: more writing, more picture-taking, more crafty projects.

We've arrived: holiday weekend, many "musts":

Paint flower pots. Plant flowers. Drive bikes to repair. Purchase a fire bowl, wood, outdoor chairs. Hire dog sitter. Attempt relaxation.

None of these "musts" are truly necessary. I could let any / all fly away. Regardless, I'll likely feel bluish, greyish, maybe blue-grey -- in any case, I will simply observe and push forward.

If I had three goals:

Goal number one: push, push, push. Goal number two: discover what I'm pushing. Goal number three: decide where I'm pushing it.

And a fourth goal: don't stop to ponder for too long. Pondering is quicksand; I don't want to get trapped.