Blog (de)Construction - I Am A Writer

I'm having trouble blogging. I'm having trouble blogging because I was sick for 2+ weeks and got out of the habit. And because our modem needs to be replaced and keeps timing out on me. And because I've finally gotten the perfect balance between a written and a visual journal, and now the words (my first, lifelong love) have returned full current, full force, full fever. Everything I read about 'how to keep a blog' instructs me to keep words to a minimum but include lots of pictures. That's provided I want readers. Readers like pictures, more than words. A LOT more than words.

But I'm a writer. That's who I am. I'm a writer who wanted new ways to express the images my writing gave me, and so I started fiddling with rubber stamps, which parlayed itself into all this other stuff I fiddle with now. But it's all extranneous activity: writing comes first. And now that the writing is back? Well, I'm going to write. It's a no-brainer. In fact, for me it's just not optional. That means words and not pictures -- or, word-pictures.

This is my blog, after all.

Samples:
Journal Entry, Tuesday, May 20th, on the back of a Paris bird tag:
Do the birds of Paris know that their nests are in the eaves of old cathedrals? Does it alter their sense of flight, launching from such a place? Do they yearn to return, sooner, to their nests? "Oiseaux" (French: bird). A word I've loved since I learned it, in 4th grade. Why does the heart feel winged, like a bird's, in Paris -- lifted, elevated, as if all vistas are seen from a new vantage point, a current of winged & freed imagination leading the body & mind? And merging with surrender to that particular ambiance?

Same day, later, a fragment (I was still sick):
My youngest male child is waiting for me to check to see if I have any batteries. But I don't want to move from this patio seat. Oh, this fatigue, this weighted breathing, the sun behind the clouds for a moment, wind in the sky, through the trees, over my skin. I feel in such need of REST. Where is that born, soul exhaustion? I have no ideas for art, which is so odd, and no appetite at all for my blog (or anyone else's). I guesss it's a time of detachment. I have assignments to catch up on for the Weekly Wings, but zero energy. I'm completely depleted. Words, showers, & sleep seem my only restoratives. Is it also an internal response (different this year than last) to the arrival of the heat? I feel suffocated, frustrated, rebellious, trapped. Thank God for the soothing grace of the wind, for the fact that I love wind. I take cold baths now, & crave salads, & hate filling the kitchen sink with hot water for dishes. I want to lay down on a panel of ice, thick thick ice, and let my body melt its contours onto it, let the drops tickle me as they fall, chill my wrists & ankles, my inner thighs, my shoulder blades. I want to lay on wet earth and let new green grass grow through me and oxygenate me again. Oh, I'm so tired. So tired. It's an odd song inside - compelling but not really quite friendly.

fragment, on a page marked 'secrets', Sunday, May 25th:
This isn't a secret, but I'm crazy about my youngest male child's hair - the texture, the color, the feel, the smell. I'm always molesting that poor kid's head! And I love it when he lets it get longer, when it all starts to curl.

fragment, Monday, May 26th:
Is it possible to have a crush on your own child? I don't mean a "hubba hubba" crush, just that warm, bubbly, delightful heart-kick whenever I see him? Yea! My oldest male child has been rockin' my Casbah lately -- I'm so proud of him.

poetry fragment/idea, Thursday, May 29th:
I want to follow the sun to where it arcs away from my view
to that place where lilac is a burning color
where blue isn't an emotion but just the light I throw
where red is no longer my heart but a cloud-searing sky ...
would you notice me then?
i'm at the end of my day, empty of excuses for you,
& depleted of repartee ...
i'm crying at chord changes in all the songs I play
i'm wearing loneliness lines on my forehead
my sleep is creased with black-edged ideas for how
to make you want me again, enough to show it ...
why do I always polish your crown, then rinse my
hands in these cut-throat tears?
I'd rather not ... just let this world roll,
let the night (another night), arrive to shade our checkmate ...

(don't know where that will go, if anywhere, was blown away by the sky)