Man, do I have a bunch of thoughts swirling around in my brain. They’re like tiny multicoloured gnats zooming confusedly in my skull. This is why I write a blog. And this is also why I miss writing regularly on my blog. In the five years and change that I’ve been doing this, the blogging has turned into a sort of occupational therapy for my crowded mind.
While my computer has been in The Shop–which is a euphemism meaning something similar to a beloved pet being sent to a farm where they can run free–I have found myself aching to create. Not having my customary outlet I’ve ended up cooking a lot more. Paprika chicken and omelets have stood in for passages of fiction and blog entries. But where the cooking satisfies my strange urge to make new things out of the parts of older things, they haven’t helped me articulate the nuttiness.
My dad is still having heart problems and has to have a risky heart cath next week. I’ve always liked “heart cath” because it is the medical procedure named after me–kinda. But now that my dad has to have one I’m not so keen on the thing.
My grandmother has been moved to a nursing home, and we’re exploring the various options for funding her stay there. One of the options–selling the family farm–breaks my heart. I have never been a career-minded person, but I always wanted to have sold a best-seller or two so that I would have enough money to do things like keep the farm in the family. We had to sell the homeplace years ago; that nearly broke my heart. But I survived that and I suppose I’ll survive losing the working land too. Even though it feels like a sort of crime against those who came before me and worked hard to keep that ground during floods, droughts, Great Depressions and the general march of time.
On top of everything else, these days I envy my friend Aunt B. for having the bravery to post her fiction on her blog. I doubt I’ll ever get to that point myself. Sure, I’ll publish it and sure I let people read and critique it. But I’m not one for letting strangers critique my fiction unless they’ve paid for the priviledge.