Sometimes. . .


Sometimes, I just want to write about the political.  Be it the politics of motherhood and the war on women, or the politics of a fourth estate gone missing, or even just the politics of a two-party system and a presidential election. Sometimes, when I start these pieces, I am so angry by the fourth paragraph, I can barely get my words out coherently (oh and this one too).

Sometimes, I just want to write about how sad I still am. How I hate father’s day, and May. But instead, I just stopped writing for six weeks.

Sometimes, I just want to write about how sick I am of writer’s block.  How feeling like I have nothing to say, when I know I have so much to say, is akin to what I imagine it feels to wade through molasses.  Sometimes, I just want to post links to things that talk about writer’s block.  Sometimes when I have writer’s block, I just write seventeen syllables.

Sometimes, I just want to talk music, about the playlists I create, the melodies I dance to in my kitchen, the lyrics I love that the boys pick up on.  I want to talk about how sometimes,  I feel like every song is speaking right to me.  Like this morning, when I let the Frank CD play straight though, didn’t skip that last slow one called “Jet Lag” and the second verse started, and I looked around to see if he way sitting in my front seat playing piano, because for just a minute, it felt all about me when he sang, “On the phone, you always ask if I’m OK, but it’s not the same as being happy.”

Sometimes, I just want to post links to the ridiculously cool stuff on the web that people are doing, or creating, or saying. Or sometimes, I just want to take pictures, and filter them so they look like some one else took them forty years ago, and then I want to post them one after another, and look at them as if it is someone else’s photo album.

Sometimes, I just want to write about all the things that Kai said last night. All of them. And all the faces Keegan made just in the time he was supposed to be going to bed.  I want to be insufferable and drone on and on about the boys, about their spunk and their energy, and their imaginations, and their fights. Sometimes, I want to talk about how much they wear me down, but how I can’t imagine them not in my life.  How everything has changed since they came along, but everything is better when I look at the world through them.

Sometimes, I want to tell you all my secrets. Okay, not all of them. But a few – like maybe three. Sometimes, I wish my blog were like PostSecret, where I could make beautiful art work renditions of my secrets, and post them up here everyday.  Except then, then they wouldn’t be secrets, and there would be nothing left for the book.

Sometimes, I wonder what I am doing here, in this space, forcing the words out of my brain, into my fingers, bound to make thirty-two typos before I catch them – inevitably the moment right after I hit publish, so that I have to update another four times. Wondering is my goal to just write, is this a space to just be a better writer, is it a space to organize everything in my brain in to lovely little drop down categories?  Or is it just  a way to work out my narcissism, in a socially (media) accepted format, clicking on my stats to see how many of you like me (you really, really like me).

Sometimes, I get worn out by all the questions I ask myself. Sometimes I burden you with all the questions, and links, and pictures.  Sometimes, I just write, until I can’t think of anything

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