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Friday, November 18, 2011

Rusty.

I miss writing.

I miss the kind of thinking that I do when I'm writing.

I miss stretching beyond what's righthere (flat hand touching the end of my nose) to see what's under there, or around this, or behind that.

So why do I not write?

I think it's because I'm too consumed with DOING to think much about it. One romantic, attached husband. Two busy, engaging young kids. A household (is that all it is? Just ONE? Because it feels like more than one on a good day.) Friends. Family. It's all good, but it never stops, you know?

For the past howevermany years, I've had this thought in the back of my mind: Once this [mwrrrrrb] (remember that sound from The Electric Company?) is over, I'm going to just settle down and [mrrrwb.] And the first [mrrrwb] is usually kid-related, or on occasion season-related, or house-work related. And the second [mwrrrb] is usually something I love to do but don't do almost ever, like blogging/writing, or reading, or watching movies, or napping, or creating, or just eating Nutella and Cheez-Its out of the jar/box.

Truth is, lately I get the feeling that the second [mwrrrrb]s aren't ever going to happen after the first [mwrrrb]s, because life? It is one first [mrrrwb] after another. And unless you just agree with yourself to forget about one or two first [mwrrb]s, the second [mwrrrb]s will remain where they are, banished into maybesomeday.

And so, I decide to sit down maybesomeday and determine which of the first [mwrrrbs] must wait for my wantings, my myownself things.

I sit here and write. Cram oddly cumbersome, now-who-was-i-again fingers onto keys that have grown tiny. I'm always only halfway there and gut-wishing just a few heart-beat words into a brain full of foot-steps and door-slams and phone-alarms and whoops!-too-quiets. I even lean hard into the screen to try and capture myownself, and pray for that wash-over-me I still recall but that now most often flatly refuses easy coaxing around the efficient jumble of a woman's laundry-basket-dirty-dishes-what-did-you-need-agains.

I flip the screen; plop another halfway-done insight onto Facebook and am evermore whisked away.

There was more. There's always more.

But it can wait. It can wait.

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