This time next week I'll be on my way to Washington DC. Until then, I'm here working on staying awake. I spent about four hours in West TN yesterday, mostly talking to the wonderful, hardworking folks who've decided that while their credit ain't perfect, they're real sure that the bank loan officers will see their way clear to loan 'em enough money to pay for the house in about a year and a half, seein' as how they'll have put about $3000 down in earnest money, and seein' as how the askin' price is pret' near twenty grand less than what it ort-ta appraise for...I'll be alright in a day or two, once I finish a couple of crosswords without consulting the dictionary, and maybe read another chapter or two of Blood and Gold....
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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