I haven't been able to post here for real in the longest time. It's not that I'm depressed, exactly. But there's enough chatter and strife in the world right now, and what can I possibly add to that noise that's worthwhile? So I keep the words inside, and they mount up inside me, hard rough rubble. I also know there's not any gold in there, and since the pile's not just heavy but awkward, like a bundle of roofing shingles which the strain of picking up will cause me to pee, I leave it alone. And I go mostly quiet.
Maybe I take some photos of pretty light, maybe I write in my journal, but there's nothing worthy of sharing, though I do feel a downright tactile pleasure in the gathering felt-tipped or typewritten pages that I've decorated with stickers and doodles like any self-respecting bookish girl who never quite grew up.
And maybe I would try to put something out there because I made a commitment to myself and a number of you have been so supportive that I haven't even known how to say thank you, which triggers my inherent lack of self-worth: Why would they like ME? I have so many questionable habits, like stammering and blushing and sitting in chocolate, and I bought those white pants even though I told the woman I couldn't handle them, and why? Because I want to be a person who can wear white pants. I want to be sleek and chic and together. Instead, I'm clumsy because I worry too much about falling.
And now Blue is missing. And for the most part I'm compartmentalizing like a champ. Moving on with the everydayness of life in addition to moving all over the neighborhood with LOST CAT signs and Sean's staple hammer that is wickedly satisfying to bang on the phone poles, talking to any neighbor we see, which is the proverbial silver lining, the lovingkindness of everyone around us, the clear bowls of milk under the shed, the ear out for his bell while gardening, the encouraging stories about cats missing for weeks who ultimately wound their way home.
And then there is Skeeter in Blue's favorite perch on the back sofa. And I just stepped on one of Blue's mousies on the kitchen floor and he is not here to toss it to. I ate breakfast without him marauding on the table to butt my forehead and walk all over the newspaper.
Oh, I could go on. But I'll stop myself here, as I always say when closing a letter. I do still write letters, I bought beautiful Van Gogh stationery at the fabulously named Funk & Swagger to write to my mom, whom I have been perversely unwilling to call, not wanting to enter that mind.
Not wanting to care.