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Thursday, September 22, 2011

How to Keep From Going Nuts












Today the skies were cloudless blue. The air still and cool. The sun's warmth better than any sweater. The first taste of Fall.

I was supposed to be working. 

I was supposed to be writing.

To you.

I didn't.

I delayed. Dilly-dallied. Hemmed and hawed my way through the afternoon. 

I watered my flowers. Rinsed the remaining cherry tomatoes with the hose and ate them like candy.

I came inside. Sat down at the computer. Told myself. Tunes.

I need tunes.

I put on ABBA. The Dancing Queen.

I dance my queenly self senseless.

I need air. 

Back outside, a solemn, stoic squirrel digging laboriously in the yard, burying walnuts in preparation for winter, fixes me with a withering stare.

Ashamed and rebuked, I return to the keyboard. 


Like chewing gum under a movie seat. 



Here alone. Just me. I am not inspired. I am not inspirational. I am stiff and awkward and struggling and lost in the moment. The words feel forced and contrived and out of whack and I can't seem to get back to the place where this is so easy and free and natural. I need outside help. Reinforcements. I need a wall to bounce off of. I need someone paying attention. I am a word performer with a bad case of stage fright. 

I love to hear my voice when it pings. Like a fish finder. I am the sonar that must have a movable object to locate or I flail about pinging into the depths. My words must land somewhere. I can feel it, right here, right now. I am winding down. Fading fast. Is there anybody out there listening? Because this silence is deafening. 

Send me an email. IM a smiley face. Text. Call. Wave. Say hi. 

Phonetic frenzy. I need some. An itch I can scratch.

Or...maybe...I just stretch my legs...take a stroll around the yard...curl up in my adirondack chair and take in a mental image of sky...warm sun on my image to tickle me when skies are gray and I am shoveling the driveway...

...the squirrel is back. That walnut stained sneering smug sanctimonius...

Hop.   Hop.   Hop.    Plop.  On my arm.  A katydid. Luscious lime little creature. Pop-eyed, antennae waving, summer green, winged tap dancer. YMCA. Flapping. Dancing to ABBA.

I made that up. 


Funny how procrastination can suddenly lead to inspiration. I know the parable of the squirrel and the gathering of the seeds. I rise and stomp across the yard and glare at Mr. Righteously Responsible Rodent . I know the moral of the story, okay?!

Do. The. Work. 

It just so happens I prefer Katy's storytelling. AND the moral of her tale is more easily received. 

Do. The. Work. 

Love. What. You. Do. 

And never ever forget to dance. 


Ode To A Katydid


Katy did.


Katy waited.

Katy worried. 

Katy hesitated.

Katy postponed. 

Katy blamed.

Katy avoided.

Katy delayed. 


Katy did. 

Me. Too. 

Katy and I.

The Dancing Queens. 

Adirondack Chairs