Must send Ghost Maps out this week. Almost there. But bah. It's my baby, and now that it's all grown up I want to keep it home and smoother its chances for a normal life.
Have a pain between my shoulders and want a hot bath. Can't find the bath plug. Blame cat. We were talking about bathing him last night.
I go to blame cat. Cat rolls over, spreads out the feathers between his toes, and starts to purr. Blaming cat loses its appeal.
Speak to James. He knows where bath plug is. Persumably he moved it to torment me. He says he put it "away." There are certain things in life which do not have an "away" and the bath plug leads the list. He refuses to come home early and rub my shoulders. Blaming him becomes tempting. (And he is not here to roll over and show me his belly.)
I'm out of clean socks.
I want to take a walk but I'm out of clean socks. James is the lord of laundry, so this is also his fault. On the other hand, I think I might be able to blame President Bush.
Writing is a silly way to spend one's life.
"Silly" originally meant "blessed."
My blog somedays feels like: an author sitting primly at a wooden table in the main aisle of one of those bookstores that lure you in with the overstuffed furniture and the good coffee while in the back small publishers are being herded into the chutes and then hit between the eyes by a big guy with a sledgehammer. A foam-core sign above her head: picture of her book, her name in big print. It twists a little; she's in front of the door, in its cold swing. Velvetta Jazz pouring from the speaker above her head. Her book in a stack at her elbow, one in a Perspex display. But no one in wanting it signed. And if you see her there and it's a book you're not remotely interested in, on The Importance of a Positive Outlook for instance, you sneak around the back side of the calendar display so you won't have to meet her big Bambi eyes.
I wish people would comment in this space. My tracker can see you, pretending to consider that Ansel Adams calendar. Smile. Wave.
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On the bright side, Anne Lamott is back at Salon. She makes me feel less neurotic. Go subscribe. Join the resistance.
I'm here! I always read your blog, though not always on the day it's posted. Your bits of real life as seen by Erin always make me smile or touch me in some way. Your poems are usually too good for me to comment on, and your way of phrasing things makes my comments seem limp.
All the same. I know what you mean about the lonely author sitting all by herself in a big book store. That has to be the worst possible thing you can look forward to, except for trying to read something to a roomful of kids and being told afterwords that nobody could hear a thing.
--Love, P
I come to your site when I have time to sit, read and consider. You always make it worth my while. Latin AND poetry? My cup runneth over.