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now i am remembering why it is so difficult to commit one’s self to daily writing and documenting of ordinary life. sometimes there is just nothing to write! (”i’m still sickish. spent the day in the office. hohum.”) funny, i wouldn’t have trouble making a collage every day. or a little painting. or images. hell, it would be hard to stop at ONE, but writing…it is so hard to squeeze these words out. sometimes i wonder why i keep trying? i can recall the time when writing so much, and online, had the feel of breaking myself wide open, being exposed and vulnerable, and it seemed a very good and useful thing. especially after growing up closed tight. always. my whole life. maybe now it is not so important? maybe just keeping track of the everyday things is fine. but i don’t like the feeling of closing up again. and i have been feeling it.
regardless, we are both nearly well again. my snarky airway is lingering a bit. my poet made a wonderful soup for dinner. he called it chili. butternut squash chunks, pinto beans, onions, green pepper, chipotle peppers, tomatoes … mmmmmmmm. it is a long weekend coming. i want long walks with my camera. the weather is changing and it is very fine to be outside. i wonder how far we would dare drive my car? it would be nice to go a little way from town. but usually it seems unwise to drive further than we are able to walk home if it breaks.
i have been wondering if i want a new sewing machine.