I like to write. I think writing may even have been my greatest unfulfilled talent/possibility. I think the writing I have done is probably my greatest satisfaction - well except for when I had good flower beds. I like flowers too.
But now as ever I have choices. Choices of what to write and where to do it/keep it. I have here of course where I have friends and where I generally get kind feedback. I have another site where I may be freer to write but there is no feedback. I have a couple live people writing groups but covid has blasted them. I write in notebooks - on paper - and that’s often satisfying. I can glue and staple real objects and private memories in those notebooks too.
I lay in bed at night and review my life. I remember pain and happiness. Jobs and fellow workers. Semi-lovers (interpret that however you like), dogs, books and authors. My health, my body, my strengths, my weaknesses. Sometimes it’s fun, sometimes it’s suffering, sometimes it puts me to sleep.
This little package of writing could have gone anywhere - but it’s here, for now anyway.
I have a new notebook for the new year = it’s not one I chose, it’s an old one of Grandma’s and it hasn’t been opened yet. I was thinking I might try writing in cursive. I know someone who insists learning and practicing cursive would make out kids better people. I always argue with her but maybe she’s right and if she is, it might help me too. I don’t really believe that but it’s a point that leads either nowhere or somewhere. I will take my choice.
My life feels full of choices right now. What to eat and when. What to buy and when. Who to talk to and when. I can even buy myself some new flowers from Jung Seed in Randolph, Wisconsin.
Ok. 10 things:
Still no furnace. No sign or promise thereof. It’s been mildish but there is cold weather promised.
I made it to Walmart (once) and bought myself two pair of sweatpants, black and gray. The black ones are cozy. I haven’t tried the gray ones yet.
3.Oh hell, two must be enough. I can’t even come up with a three