The Fight of the Century has ended.

Total knock out. I have been on the ropes.

Eyes swollen. Blood streaks from my despair. Dazed. Confused. Angry. Denial.

(Never reached Acceptance. I don’t give up.)

Tonight, I almost surrendered.
Like the Elton John song: Someone saved my life tonight.
I am The Someone.

It should have been a simple task.

Catastrophe ensued.

I tried to install the iCloud app on my computer. The computer is a PC and runs on the new Windows 11.
I lost all contact with email, Chrome, Twitter, Facebook, the internet, and all those other fun things for four hours.
I have no idea (except cry and curse) what I just did to make it work again.
I am in shock. I clicked every support button available. No robot could help. I didn’t even know who to call to help at the end of my rope. And then, a great miracle happened after something I did (that I could not reenact here if I tried).

All that matters is I am back.
A friendly word of advice.
Whatever I did to corrupt the system, don’t.
Do not try this at home.

Good ol’ dependable computer. I’m sorry I tried to give you a facelift.
I love you just the way you are.

^{Ink Think}

While watching the ALA announcements this morning, 
I thought of my own writing and asked myself questions. 
My soliloquy is something that will fit in to my manuscript.
Sharing my note to self.
Who in real life ever admits to fitting in?
I do not believe I have ever met a writer who believes she or he fit in growing up. 
I do not know any writer who now thinks she or he fits in.
Fits in to what?
Is there a secret password for those who know they fit in to whatever that In is? 
How does it feel to fit in without doubt or duress?
How does it feel to wake up every day without wondering about if you’re normal, a member of that In crowd?
I have never experienced the luxury of that sense of self.
I’m not sure what I would do with it. 
I don’t know if I would like it.
To be or not to be.
Those are my questions.

I need a pillow that won’t drive me crazy. My head hits the pillow and I want to hit the highway. It’s come down to this. I am quoting John Cougar Mellencamp.

When I am on the Forbes 500 list, my first splurge will be to buy new pillows for each night. They feel okay Night One. But then? The next night? WHAT WAS I THINKING? I hate this thing!

If you need a salad chef, I’m your girl. I excel in tossing and turning.

Lost. In. Space.
Paging The Book to the front desk, please.
I see this book nearly every day in the house,
like a friendship that passes in the night.
Now that I’m looking for the book, I can’t find it.
I need it. It knows that.
It’s playing hide-and-seek.
So you want to play hard to get?
I’m sorry I neglected you, Book.
I’m not in the mood for these games.
Come out now and show your face! Game over!

————Poet Maggie Smith

Snow takes her solo. Center stage. The crowd, rapt in wonder, holds its applause, afraid to break the rhythm. Play on, play on.

Someone figure-eights to the music of silence.

I am not having a crisis. I am not done.

My new blog focus, framework, idea? CALL THE MIDLIFE.

CALL THE MIDLIFE. Hmmmmm.

Maybe. Maybe.

Works for me. 🥳

I know how young old I am. No need to feel shame I’m past my Amazon Prime. 😉

Our apartment, growing up, Brooklyn: Top floor, closest to the viewer’s eyes, terrace on the corner. A terrace we never used. The access door was covered by expensive drapery and my mom was adamant about keeping it that way. Untouched.

My shared bedroom: Third window to the left of the mystery terrace. What would I give to zoom inside and see what we were doing, circa 1972 through 2019? Where did we all go?

Not sure why I did a map hunt for the old place. Seeing it in 3D is astounding, as enigmatic it must have been when people first saw images on a television screen. I don’t know how I would have survived childhood had I had access to the Internet. That’s another door we couldn’t open. And like the flowing fabric in that apartment, my memories of The Way We Were are as fresh as the day they were made, untouched by years and time and adult onset “what was I looking for again?” amnesia. 🤦‍♀️

How it started: A much-needed one hour nap at 6 pm

How it’s going: An obviously much more needed seven hour sleep.

Seven -hours-? Equals two nights of rest in normal times. Don’t ask. Math is not my super strength.

Thank you, Big Comfy Couch, for giving me what a bed resists. Deep, deep sleep, give or take a few bad dreams. (Make them stop.)

Can a day begin at 2 am? I’m about to find out. 😉

www.facebook.com/1240064912/posts/10227219911463836/

A great miracle happened here. Fears fell to pride. Anthology finally removed from envelope. I’m on page 72. “Toilet Paper and Sympathy.” Two essentials needed in the era of Covid. (And always.) Can’t have one without the other.

Available on Amazon:
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