Waxing and waning, and generally waiting.

Monday, February 11th, 2008

I must have gotten into a pretty comfortable routine, because I never seem to have much to write about anymore. Just now I almost wrote an entire post about how much I love my bathroom, because it is 100 degrees at any given time (but maybe you knew that already?). Maybe what this tells me is that I ought to be working on my supposed novel, or turning out a few short stories, or at the very least spending some time writing a poem or two. Poems are the easy ones, right? Take a look it’s in a book, you little crook.

Poems aren’t that easy, I guess. I manage to write about two or three poems a year, and I’d say they take a lot more work than my average blog post. Or maybe that’s not true. I wrote my best (or at least my personal favorite) about a year ago, maybe you read it in that old blog of mine:

There is a woman who listens and a woman who speaks.
Seldom do these two women meet.
Seldom they sever; their discourse is never
too clever
if ever they discourse at all.

This source of life has no remorse for strife inflicted by the fall.
We are all, each one of us, a knife plunged deeply in the wherewithal.

Celeste! Celeste! This is your quest, can you find meaning in it all?

I like to go back and reread some of my old blogs, as I’m sure most bloggers would admit to, and usually I like to go back and check where I was a year ago today. It’s a little bit harder for me to do that at this point, because a year ago these days I was so hopeful, so giddy and falling. The small quantity of writings from this time period last year attest to that, how absorbed I was becoming in something new, something nice. It’s difficult to read the words of someone who has no idea how much things will change. My how cryptic I can be when the mood strikes me! This has little to do with the approaching Valentine’s Day, I swear.

Oh, it’s Superficial Monday, isn’t it? (I always forget about Superficial Monday.) Well, here, I am thinking about cutting my hair. It is almost that time. Tufts of silken hair, wafting gently to the tile floor, collecting ’round two pairs of ankles, shorn, but never scorned.

Good grief. I can really miss you.