I haven't longblug in awhile. It's a combination between not feeling comfortable blogging at work and then not having anything to say when I get home. I'm a little emotionally tired and a litttle convinced that all the things I have to say are too small to matter to anyone other than me. Or even, for that matter, to me.
(I really don't like the sentences I write anymore. They feel so flat. Part of the reason I'm blogging is so that I'll write and think but it doesn't help if I stay a slovenly thinker and and sloppy writer. (Slovenly is one of those adjectives that end in -ly. "Homely," "comely," and "silly" are the only others I can think of right now, but I'm sure there's more.) More than that, I'm in one of those moods where my thoughts aren't all that interesting. I'm tired a lot, occasionally hungry, feel at turns loved and unloved. I'm a racoon or a cat or something. So flat sentences.)
I'm going to come back raving about the stars. They're not all that great up there, but they are wonderful. And the splash of the paddle in the water and the eagles and the animals scurrying away from the canoe and the fucking brilliant squirrels and not knowing what time it is and not thinking about email and having your arms feel tired and.... it's a trip out of this world. And, as much as I feel like I have unfinished business here (work and work and work and Mag), I wouldn't mind disappearing for a bit. It's like life stops for awhile and different things matter.
It's actually a lot like listening to jazz, kinda. I won't ever be able to make that make sense, but it's a break in rhythm with new rhythms of its own and a series of surprising repetitions and a source of renewal and a view of life and....
Terrible, terrible sentences. I should run verbal scales. (Nate is playing scales on the piano.)
The cat is in the tree.
The wicked cat is cackling mysteriously.
Words sink like silk coated in Teflon in the ivory sea of my breath's fierce and lovely hands.
Cackle, cats.
Somehow that didn't help.
