"It's okay. Sooner or later everybody goes to the zoo." That might explain Friday, but it applies a little more to Saturday, as we made a two-car field trip to the Memphis Zoo. I don't think I've been to Memphis in five years or more. But the zoo's still at the end of Sam Cooper Blvd, so we found it okay. Miranda and Steve, her boyfriend, better known as Scuba to avoid any mixups with my own kid, Stephen, had been planning this trip for months. We just went along for the ride, but anyone who knows me knows I love to go to the zoo. Can't really explain it, but it's been a life-long fascination. So we spent six hours in the sun, shot a 24-exposure roll of film and took 86 digital shots, and in general acted like tourists. Now I'm back to the REAL zoo, but it's okay for a Monday.
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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