Ah, the chaotic comfort of fall, the season when my kids are needy, the schedule is impossible, and there's never enough of anything to go around. Miranda's speeding ticket was dismissed, she dropped one of her three English classes, and now wants to go on a spending spree in her spare time with her "spare" money. Stephen is, well, Stephen - watching his bank account dwindle to nothing while he spends entirely too much on fast food... but hey, he's 21 now. Another year or two and he'll declare his independence - and I'm betting I'll still be doing semi-monthly money transfers. Heather either is really enjoying high school and doing well in class, or is the best actress on the planet. I'm not taking any bets. I just want her to pass all her coursework. My gadding butterfly just won't light long enough to take this stuff seriously. Tonight is Open House at school, so maybe I'll get a better idea of what's going on. Tomorrow we have "Call to Freedom" at the church, so I guess Thursday night I'll actually cook for the first time this week. Unless, of course, something else pressing comes up ;)
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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