I’ve been a bad blogger and avoided writing anything. I’m thinking in pictures. I wish I were a painter or had any gift with a camera. This is one of those weird thoughts I can’t seem to do anything with: I feel as if I’ve written every worthwhile thing I could in this time when words have never been cheaper.
Two friends have political blogs. Both are highly readable, well-reasoned blogs, and it’s delightful to see friends find their voices. The finding of one’s power is a joyful thing, the nurturing of it and its exercise are wonderful to behold. It’s been a long time since I felt like I possessed my own. I miss that very much.
On the other hand, I’ve gotten a lot better at living an ordinary life. I have often done that without much skill. Yesterday, Mamie and I went shopping because I’m sick of myself, my clothes, my missing Me-ness; you name it, I’m sick of it. So we went to Target. We picked up pants that come close to fitting but don’t actually fit; sweaters that will keep me warm in my over-air conditioned office but couldn’t possibly flatter my figure; and some long sleeved t-shirts I probably shouldn’t be caught dead in. Essentially, the clothes are inoffensive. The two prize purchases, however, are a long-wearing lipstick that really stays on my lips and a Crockpot. No lie. I have reached a stage of life in which the purchase of a shiny silver Crockpot gives me joy. There’s beef stew bubbling on the counter.
My feeling is I have to get back into the body. It’s worked before, when my brain stopped doing the wonderful fizzy thinking thing. We are researching yoga retreats. Maybe there’s a future for my life as an artist, but to get to it, I have to work the physique.