What is the name of the uncanny ability to pull up intense memories associated with personal significant dates but simultaneously have no recollection of what you did the day before? Yup. I’ve got that. That sentence is on a runaway train to no where but I’m in no mood for patient typing tonight. Imagine me shouting with random inspiration from a free-floating parachute across the universe.

Here’s my favorite dish. A Veal Couplet. ✏️

Some of us look to fairy godmothers
to wave a wand
and turn star stuff into words.

You sit in your own little corner,
sweeping soot and dust
into
life,
magic into manuscript,
dreams into books.

I am afraid of packing suitcases. Where will my books go?

What do we carry with us when we travel? What books do we keep? How do we take notes to remember? What photos do we take? How do we focus? How do we identify them?

People who move What do we keep?

How do we ger overcome our fears
How do we find a mentor? A role model?

How do we share our writing when we are inherently shy?
That is doing the opposite of all that I am?
How do we learn to read our poetry to others without wanting to hide behind the paper?

How do we make our words heard without speaking?
There are a lot of questions and I do not have the answers.
Yet.

I fall into rabbit holes
I do too much research
I am afraid to commit the words to paper.
Writing is a relationship

Greetings from ye bedroom of little rest
where instead of counting sheep
to lull me into sleep,
I rehashed a recent daytime soap opera wedding and its guest list
and wondered why certain characters
were uninvited.
This kept me up all night
and now I know I will be a mess
at today’s online conference.
Less stress would be nice.
Cue the gothic organ music.
Stay tuned. But first,
a word from our sponsor, Vitametavegamin.
“It’s so tasty, too! Just like candy!”

I am snorting things from my nose reading my own words. Not complaining, of course. It’s like seeing an old photo and adjusting to the realization that was once -you-.

It’s nice to have a good laugh at myself. This feels like it happened yesterday. How can 12 years have passed by in a hot flash?

A plumber doesn’t hesitate to say he’s a plumber.

A teacher confidently knows he’s a teacher.

A doctor is free to tell a crowd she’s a doctor.

No one questions the veracity of the identification. That person is who he or she is and no one blinks.

Now tell someone you’re a writer. You say it with a gulp because you may feel like a liar, an imposter, a poser.

Or tell someone you are a poet. You pray you are but what gives you the privilege to call yourself a poet?

Is it a case of “I write, therefore I am”?

Knock knock. Who’s there? Me. Me who?

That’s what I want to know.

I lived this day as if it was Tuesday.

I lost my Monday. Blame the brain fog I felt from the moment I woke. I get a do-over day today and I want to give it all I’ve got. Two Tuesdays, one week. Rearranging the deck chairs on my calendar is a superpower I can handle. This Tuesday’s child is in a good place.