February 2008 Archives

I am reading Children's hospital, a nonfiction end of the world story. There is a main character who has suffered so much loss in her life that she comes to feel empty inside when faced with new loss. Unsuprised, hollow, unfeeling.
I dreamt of my mother last night and, as a result, am suffering from this emptiness. It reminds me of the nothing in The Never Ending Story. The nothing is coming...
These hands...used to be such big strong hands...but they could not hold onto the the earth, the rocks, the people being pulled into the nothing.

I am of the nothing. I am the nothing. I am coming for you.

I have begubn to write. I am like my mother in that I hesitate to write in a fancy journal. I worry that what I write won't be cool or interesting or important. i keep a journal in spit and furts.and it's mostly emotional crap that I tear out and burn later so no one can read it.

So now I am recording mundane facts about my daily life. How long did I sleep. what medication and food have I ingested. What have I read and what were my impressions.What work have I accomplished.

I am not writing for therapy, for memory or someone's voyuerisitc pleasure. It is a daily reflection, like meditating, that makes me slow down, breath, live. It helps my brain.
It seems like information that might someday be useful when I go to a doctor's office, or want to remember what I thought about that book - but largely it is here and now, a personal daily reckoning.

I'm walking from the house to my car with an 11 month old in my arms and a three year old in tow. I buckle the baby into the car seat and walk around to help the three year old hop up and buckle into her safety seat.
As she clibs up into her seat she faces the rear of the car, exaines it, turns to me and says " I like your back side."

I try to explain that this is a hatchback. She looks at me quizically.
"It's a lot like a trunk" I explain.
"oh, I like your trunk"

I gave up. it's not a compliment I'm used to - but one can accept from a toddler.