Rhymes with today. Sashay. Hooray.
Recovering cheerleader and honor student who was the epicenter of the cool crowd.
Breathtakingly honest writer.
Has a vegetable garden, compost pile, and the breasts of a sixteen year old.
Feet firmly planted in reality, eyes toward the sky.
Fearlessly following her own path, building a future with a man who is clearly her soulmate.
A person I would choose for a friend, again and again.
Last night was one of those nights where I was thinking so much, writing so much in my head, that by 3:30am I was marking time until I could get up and make the words real. Permanent.
Much of what I was thinking about will go directly into the book. I need to write them like I feel them now - raw, bare, bold. Those words are not for my blog, sorry.
But the inspiration? It was real.
As real as these words you are saying along with me, wherever you are.
My inspiration was journey I took last night, a boat ride south. Past the Caribbean, around Venezuela, Brazil, still heading south.
Drifting aimfully to find an iceberg.
It was a journey I could not explain, even to myself, and one to which I was both ridiculously and expectantly attatched.
When I finally found the iceberg that I hoped -- knew? -- would be waiting, it woke me with a bump.
I was not startled. Just grateful. I did not anchor, for fear of scarring the giant.
It was a work of art, entirely. Magnificent, beyond what I could have hoped for. At least the part I could see.
For hours I sat in my boat, chin resting on my left knee.
It was a quiet, reflective position, one that felt like the warmth I was seeking.
I should have felt much colder, but it felt like home. Safe, strong, familiar.
Icebergs are not silent. They crack and pop, like someone tapping their pen on a desk to punctuate points. I listened, listened so carefully for a word - a sign - an answer.
It mocked me, gently, because there was no question needing an answer.
So I spent hours admiring it. Combing every bit of it with my eyes, memorizing the beauty of every groove.
The smile from that dream is still bright on my face.
Maybe, just maybe, that was what the pilgrimage had been all about.
After commenting on the raspiness of my voice, he turned the conversation to an admission that he can't sleep, either.
That always throws me. I don't know who reads these words, althought I have an idea of the quantity of traffic. My brother's conversational curveball was the third in a week.
At a picnic on Saturday, Aron's mom started talking about book.
I was kinda dazed. I can't carry a smart conversation with small children around. Or cake. Or trees. I was in a daydreaming mood, and talking was work.
I write because I can't talk.
Because sometimes I have things to say, and there is absolutely no one to say them to.
So I just scribble them down on the blog and leave them, like a note on the table, and walk away.
Lots of times I forget what I've written, so it's weird when people bring up things I've done, like
- flashing a gorilla
- bouncing quarters off my ass,
- Texas Toast
- being kinda rude to idiots but looking cute while doing it
- being traumatized by a CCD teacher
- discovering a stapler burial grounds
- another (YAWN) tv interview
But anyway, today is another day.
With lots to say.
Like my sudden realization that the best way to teach a kid to use a spoon is by giving them a bowl of M&M's and a very very long DVD.
Or the fact that I honestly hide from my kids. They think it's a game, but it isn't.
Yes. I have a lot to say. I'm just wondering who I'm going to say it to...
But back to my brother. What's keeping him up at night is his 3 month old twins (not identical).
Now, I'm not being competitive, but I think that what's keeping me up is a bit more interesting. Melancholy, creativity, wistfulness, and writing. Quadruplets (non-identical).
So, um, again - I WIN.
Not that anyone's counting, right?