I started writing this blog entry almost a month ago:
It’s warm today; the windows and doors are open, and I’m happily sitting around in a t-shirt and pyjama pants (there are advantages to working from home). The cat’s sleeping on the chair by the door, and the rabbit is statue-like in the middle of the of the living room floor. Every once in a while the traffic stops and I can only hear the wind from outside. It’s really, really nice.
I forget what happened to interrupt the writing, but one thing led to another and my brain is just now able to come up with something that’s potentially interesting to other people.
Actually, I hope it’s been coming up with things that interest other people, but I can’t honestly believe anyone will find American comma usage interesting. If they do… maybe I should start putting in links to CAMH or really good therapists or something. I’m still neck-deep in grammar curriculum, but I’ve adjusted to it now and it’s not quite so all-encompassing.
Unfortunately, the weather isn’t co-ordinating with my mental state; my feet are cold and I’m debating reaching over to the chair for my wool shawl.
I’m not closing the door, though. On principle.
Went to Hot-Sauced Words again two days ago. Lara Bozabalian launched her new book (I watched her take it in her hands for the first time, exclaim over the texture of the paper and the image on the cover; jealous, jealous, jealous). Kevin Fortnum did a performance piece of one of Lara’s poems that was gobsmackingly brilliant – both the poem and the performance. But, like a natural river through a landscaped park, Nichola Ward did her thing. This time, the poem that got me was one about soup. I can’t find it online, but it was something about going for free soup, but the soup isn’t free; it costs everything you have even if you have nothing. I’m just going to have to bite the bullet and pay for a copy of everything she’s ever written. I do this every once in a while – try to be financially responsible in regards to literature and music – but it never works out very well. I did the same thing the first time I heard David Francey’s music, and I now own absolutely everything he’s ever done. And I’m happy that I can hear his words whenever I feel the need.
Am still sitting back in my writer’s chair and waiting for some characters to finish evolving. Something clicked, though, last weekend as I was walking through a graveyard with my cousin (not as macabre as it sounds; my father’s family took care of Sarnia’s Our Lady of Mercy cemetery when they moved to Canada, and my cousin’s father was the one who inherited it when my grandfather retired. For us, it’s nostalgic, not emo) and I think I know where the characters are going now. No, they’re not going to die. I got out of that headspace when I was a teenager. But death and life can be pretty much the same thing sometimes, and history is always subjective.
My daughter is waiting – impatiently – to use the computer. It’s Saturday morning, and I have apparently thrown off the planets’ alignment by interrupting the Watching Of Mind-Blowing Cartoons. Fine. I spent 8 1/2 months making that mind, but will let her turn it into mush. I’m a good mother.