Death, Life, Irrelevancies

This morning, in the throes of a newfound (and probably temporary) resolve to blog - even though not one damn person has ever read this bog other than me (next, I will try to somehow ascertain how to spread the word - assuming I decide i want to do that) - anyhow, throes and all - in between readying the Blue Apron ingrediants for a cheese on foccaccia dish later, putting on sweats,  making a quick assessment of what I must do today (most of  which is in the list of the things I didn't do yesterday - making lists is an endeavor that does not seem to move me one iota forward from the deep pit of lethargy and discarded good intentions) -and preparing to do a run/racewalk for maybe 30 minutes, ending at Marianos for an oatmeal, and  restocking of kale, chard, peppers, a small milk, and some olive oil - after preparing for all that.

Here I am.............writing nothing.

There are words spewing out onto the white screen as my fingers (newly painted in silver- don't ask) move with resolve and energy and speed , tap tapping on the keyboard - but words are just that unless they attach themselves to other words that in the entirety of their joining become something worthwhile, or at least interesting, or at a minimum - articulate.

Apparently, no hope of that this morning.

At least my new phone - the gifted Moto X - the one I am, after four days, still slowly getting to know (it's the same with most new relationships) - at least it now displays Chicago time.  After mucking arund with it for almost an hour yesterday when I discovered it thought I was on the east coast, and finally (I really don't recall how) , after going into every possible setting and app that could affect the time, made it understand that it was indeed Central time here...................well, I woke this morning and the window across my bedroom - the narrow sliver of window in which a wicker basket of small teddy bears sits - that window showed a grey sky perhaps an hour or two away from daylight.  The damn Moto, however - which I reflexively punched when its alarm rang (at what it told me was 7:30 am) and then rested against my bent knees to use to check e mails etc. - it  displayed a clear digital white reading on its black surface - yes, indeed, it was 8:30 in the morning.   I shone the screen onto my wristwatch as a mini flashlight - and my wristwatch told me it was 6:30 am.   That of course jibed with the sky and the world as I could see it from my under-quilt snuggly position.  So, 45 minutes later - again, after trying things too numerous to describe - all over the screen, general settings, clock settings, location settings, etc. - discovered when I checked the online 'help" menu and then went to reset "time and date" (had not even thought of that, since it is something on this damn machine that happens automatically,including initially) that it was set for central america - Bogota Columbia, to be exact.  How did that happen in the middle of the night with the fucking  thing on my nightstand?   Probably the same gremlins who periodically make my AOL software freeze so that nothing can be touched or pressed without a complaining "beep beep" that says in translation  "nah nah nah nah nah- I'm on strike". Oh - I DID try to "reboot" the Moto (that usually works with PC related shit) but no.................after three reboots and revivals, I was still in Bogota.

So it has thus far not been an auspicious beginning to what will I am sure be a shit day anyway, what with the client projects I really need to get to, the  run I probaby won't take (ok - probably will racewalk to Marianos since I'm already dressed, and do need the kale), the NAWBO article I just recalled I have to finish by today,  the dust and piles of papers collecting around me (I am way overdue in cleaning the apartment ), and the fact that now yet another week has passed, another week without the progress I promise myself will suddenly start occurring.

I am down another pound.

I have counted WW points for the last three days, and done well.

I did read the Washington Post this morning on the Moto while still in bed (at least the hard articles and commentary on the Russian situation - disturbing).

And I have written this blog entry - this lousy , meandering entry.

Which I called "Death, life, irrelevancies."  Why?

Oh, yes.  Death.  Too much of it lately.  I know it is inevitable and a constant, but dammit, I don't need to suddenly be reminded of it so vividly.  In the last 9 months - Amos, Sandra, Myrna, Catherine, and now Pat's spouse Vernita  (she was Pat's  first real relationship  after she came out, and Pat and Vernita were the first GLBT couple to marry in Illinois under the new law - with much fanfare).   The last one - Vernita's passing -  is in some ways the hardest for a number of reasons.  She was an important, vivid, exciting figure in the GLBT movement, civil rights, and other progressive causes - ever since her first awakening at Woodstock I recently discovered.. And that is the problem - my personal problem - the word "recently".  Her spouse Pat has been a friend of mine for many years, and I have met Vernita several times, though briefly, at her apartment during their annual Xmas bashes - but I have never gotten to know her.  I did ask Pat and Vernita to join me for lunch or dinner, but that was only in the last six months, after she had become so weakened that it was a hard choice to make such plans.  Now, I am getting to know her - since the announcement of her death yesterday morning - by watching You Tube videos of her speeches,  reading her biography, seeing the NBC piece about her - incuding the lovely Mary Morton description of who she -Vernita - was, and watching their wedding on You Tube.  And the result is that I want to get to know her better.  I want to sit with her over a glass of wine and talk about the history of the womens' movement, and civil rights, and politics, and this country, and black and white, and just girl talk and the talk of intelligent articulate people with similar world views.  And it is too late.  She is gone.  So many things that we delay can no longer happen.  That is the reality that the death of Vernita, and of others, and my aging body, and the bulbous face of Kim Novak on the Oscars, and the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman through a drug overdose in the prime of his talent and creativity after having kicked the habit and found a loving relationship,  and .............and...............and................all of the reminders smacking me across my face - more so lately than ever - that this life is going to end, and nothing and no one can tell you when and how - and if you (I) want to do something there may not be a "later" or "after I get this one other thing done"  or even another horizen.

That is the shit fact.  The truth.  The reality.

Most of us ward it off by forgetting it exists.  We live each day as if we have forever.

That was easier when I was twenty.  And forty.  But now, I'm approaching.................................(I almost cannot say it).........seventy!  

I cannot live even one day with the theory that..............I'll do that or get to that or write that or call him or her later.  Always later.

I already made that decision years ago, when that four year period from Hades occurred - during which my law firm and marriage broke up, my mother and father died, two of my children were injured, and I discovered and had surgery for breast cancer.

And I have run off to France when I feel like it, and written short stories, and spent a lot of time hugging grandkids.

but

A big but.

In the daily living of life, in between those life affirming and living -in-the-present actions - in the daily living, let's face it.  I'm a time waster - big time time waster.  Real Housewives and NCIS and computer games and re reading Travis McGee books etc.

For Philip Seymour Hoffman, later has stopped.  And for Vernita, and Catherine, and Sandra, and Amos and Myrna, and Paul Newman (I cried while crossing the Grant Park swale when I read that on my old smart phone a few years ago), and for I.J. and Bernice and Bobo and Herby.

The world keeps getting emptier.

They say - whoever the Hell "they" are - that you should live each day as if it were your last.  Well, that doesn't work because if it were really my last I would take every last penny in my puny - very puny - 401(k) accunt and do something with it - something that involves a foreign country and all of my kids and grandkids celebrating that last day in a glorious way.

But at least one should live each day with the knowledge that things may be over soon.  or not.

When the Hell am I ever going to write that novel?  Or those short stories? or read the rest of Proust?  Or read, thoughtfully, and with recall, all of the books i have on writing?  Or get a physical checkup?  Or become a runner again (recalling now the wind in my hair and the clarity of thought and clearness of breath and joy  I felt and had when I was running down the Lakefront in good condition) or  tighten my muscles (recalling the prideful high I had when I passed a mirror on a street and saw the then fifties firm body that was me) .????????

Ok - now I have managed to cause a deep lump in my gullet, and moisture behing my eyeballs.

I need to take that damn run or racewalk.

I'm done.  With this blog post.   I will be back for another tomorrow (I think).

JUST WENT BACK TO THIS SITE ON A REAL COMPUTER = MY PC - WHICH IS THE ONLY WAY I AM COMFORTABLE REALLY WRITING ON IT - SO NOW, AN HOUR AFTER THIS ENTRY WAS ORIGINALLY POSTED, I CAN EDIT IT: (originally psted at 6:29 am; now editing at 8:59 am)

My son in law said I should blog instead of entering my wandering thughts onto facebook. Well, there are several problems.  One is that I have no audience for his blog.  No one knows about it.  And what good is it to throw thoughts out ito the universe if no one out there listens?  Secondly it is more dificult.  Just took me five minutes to find the thing and figure out again how to post entries.  It is now on my android's home screen, yet typing on the god damn android keyboard (loosely called such since it is only an interactive picture of a keyboard without keys) is challenging and annoying and I hate it.  For today, I have just paired the separate "real" keyboard that I use with my I Pad to the android using its Bluetooth.  But that is not practical since it is large and not generally in my pocket or on my nightstand with the android.  So for now, Chris, here is an entry but no promises for the future.  And you will admit, I am sure, in your own  articulate but curmudgeonly way, that this entry is shit.  Right?

Starting Again

This is an experiment to see, now that I have a mini I pad, whether typing on its screen will be a means to facilitate writing again, and more regularly, in my long ago created blog.

I've returned from nine days in France; I've managed to reduce from 154 pounds to a range of 134 to 136; and didn't gain a single pound back while in France - though this week back (rationalization- " its my Birthday Week") has thus far been pretty bad, what with pasta at both Giordano's, the Fabio restaurant (Sienna Tavern) and Trattoria No 10;, then quiche, much chill and smooth white wine at Cyranos with Di V, Emily, Michele Katz, and Toni King ( along with bread, escargot, a potato leek soup, and chocolate mousse), plus TWO iced chai lattes- and the only exercise? I walked to and from .Cyranos- grand total of two miles.

So, until my birthday brunch to be served by Kathy Sunday morning, and birthday dinner to be shared with Brett and Bobby after Goodman's Jungle Book on Sunday afternoon, I will be back to goodness, and next week I will start going to that yoga on thr beach thing regularly, and running/ walking)

And I still intend to lose another 20 pounds and become tight and fit by year end.

Living Life - Coehlo

I finished the Paulo Coehlo book about the girl who wanted to die - writte in 1998.   There were fascinating discussions about madness and conformity and the idea that it is considered mad to follow your instincts and loves and desires for life instead of being in conformity with what is expected.  And the lead character tries to commit suicide, and is saved and brought to an asylum, where she is told that the pills she took to kill herself created an irreversible damage to her heart and she has only a few days to live.

She ends up (after going through some satisfaction with the job about to be done for her) learning to enjoy life as she has never before, and falling in love, and escaping with the so called schizophrenic who it turns out is also more sane than those who put him there, and they appear to be treating each day as a gift and are surprised that she is not dead the next morning.

But then, we find out that the doctor has lied to her about her illness in order to experiment with the concept (that to me does not appear all that new or innovative) that by facing death, a person often is forced to finally confront life and deal with the daily enjoyment of life in a way never possible before

So what else is new?  Now isn't this just a pat and old idea?  Isn't that the reason that I started spending so much money and runnng off to France?  (after confronting that period of time when I had breast cancer, lost bothmy mom and dad - one from cancer and the other an accident, almost lost Brett, got divorced, and saw my law firm break up and formed a new one.)...................the combination, a death of sort - or at least the possibility of death - or endings  - or both.

This is such a common part of human nature.

And Coeholo is considered so brilliant and his voice so fresh and new - he has such a large following.

Ok - the writing was good, and the book held me all the way to the end, but then, that rabbit out of a hat or deus ex machina thing at the end "She's really not sick".   Give me a break!

Matisse - Reinvention

Yesterday, after a lovely and unexpectedly gourmet lunch at the new cafe' in the modern wign of the Art Institute, I slowly wended my way around the new Matisse exhibit. It took a bit over an hour, even with careful reading of each of the wall descriptions, and close observation of each of the larger paintings that I learned had been reworked and scraped and repainted and re thought so many times. That was the fascinating part - that, and the fact that this watershed period of Matisse's life as a painter occurred during a wartime period when art was probably the most difficult to accomplish - what with moving, and shortages of necessities, and such.

In one room, there wss a display of small drawings - portraits - that Matisse had sold during that period to make a living.

But the largest part of the exhibit was the display of how he moved from bright color and somewhat greater representation in his art, to just a few colors, and different methods, drawing on Cubism but never actually going that direction, including the reworking of a painting, or a sculpture, or doing it over and over on different canvases, during that period of 1913 to 1917 until he felt it was not exactly "right", perhaps, but at least more "right" than it had been several iterations earlier - witness up close the extra layers of paint taking away - deleting portions of a face, changing the outer dimensions to render it a bit more abstract - or in one case, the scraping away of long curved lines of the dark paint to create white curved lines emanating from and around the figure which melded with and enhanced the figure.

I did not buy the book - $45 for just the paperback vedrsion - but I am rethinking that. I just read online that the book is very unusual in the care with which it describes this entire metamorphosis.

It also shows the xrays of the paintings, to truly see the various stages of development and redevelopment.

I will go back to the exhibit and see the x ray evidence in the one room I missed - the hands on information room that apparently accompanies the exhibit. It was 5:00 , I had entered at about 10 minutes to 4:00 , and the museum closed at 5:00. But I'm a member, it is two bl0ocks away, and there is no reason that I should not revisit it a couple of times.

From here, it will go to the MOMA in July.

I think I need to write an article about this exhibit, from the standpoint of someone who is far from an expert - who, in fact, had never known very much at all about Matisse previously. I had to read one of Arnie Greenberg's articles in Bonjour Paris to get some background (and purchase a small $5.00 book in the gift shop and read it during my meal) so that I had at least some background.

Nevertheless, the exhibit was not just an exhibit, and not just the kind of learning experience that such art exhibits always are, but a very different learning experiend - one in which I really was fascinated each step of the way, and had not desire at all (as I often do) to skip any part of either the art on display, or the explanatory material on the walls.

Wild Things

I had thought for a time that I might take my 18 month old grandson to the new "Where The Wild Things Are" movie, but now I guess not. This morning (after a full day yesterday of payment and time entry bringing me inches from finishing and creating/printing the bills) I woke this morning realizing it was Sunday, and I had yet another full day to finish that task - then I watched tv till I realized it was 10:25, and went onto my Blackberry for the hell of it to see what time the earliest show started and it was at 10:45, so I threw my toothbrush and toothpaste into my purse, washed my face and put on a bit of eye makeup (just in case the man of my dreams appeared in the next seat), put on my new MDB shoes with the rocking sole that is supposed to reduce my butt and gut and force me to stand up straight, and put on my stretch jeans with the unwashable blue inkspot (now, at this 145 pound stage, actually almost too tight) and the new black sweater coat that was $35 at Old Navy, wrapped my wool Kenzo scarf (the one in shades of turquoise and pink) around my neck, and hailed a taxi.

Sitting in the theater with a small unbuttered popcorn and a bottle of water, I noticed a young man with a little girl of about 5 and her younger brother, perhaps 3.

The studio announcement with the logo had a crayonj outline of a wild thing's head over it, and the credits had crayon words and scribblings on them. A good sign, indicating that the movie was perhaps really aimed at children.

And the creatures on the island looked large and fuzzy and just like the Sendak drawings. And so did Max in his white wolf suit.

But, the movie, though not really frightening (except for a couple of moments - such as when the wild things at first threatened to eat Max, something true to the book but much more vivid with actors and closeups), there was a bit too much violence (though generally playful - such as when one of the large creatures jumped on top of Max, followed by all of the others, one at a time, until there they were, with Max at the bottom of the pile, having created a gigantic furry Max-plus-creatures pile for sleeping; or when they took Max's lead and waged a "war" by throwing hard dirt balls at each others' heads)...................as I said, though it was not really frightening, nevertheless it was lengthy and primarily about complex interpersonal relationships.

I of course appreciated the concept of how loneliness, and self involvement (and immaturity, of course, since even the giant creatures had the personalities of children) can sabotage close familial relationships by resulting in violent acting out-angry outbursts rather than caring and concern. And I do think that perhaps a child of 8 or 10 might get it. Nevertheless, it is not a movie for small children.

And what about my two little neighbors down the row? They sat thrugh much of it (it IS a large screen and a relatively small theater, rendering the screen that much larger) but they also seemed a bit restless. At one point the little boy walked by his dad to stand in front of his sister , at one point the girl leaned over and curled into a bored sleeping position, and they did ask questions from time to time.

Did I like it? Yes. I enjoyed the special affects and the personalities. On the other hand, I love fantasy and the fantastic. I can have a great time at Disney all by myself. I remember the first time I visited EuroDisney (I think that now it is called something else). I took the train from Paris, got off at the stop, and within a few minutes found myself standing in a tiled plaza with the magic castle rising into the blue sky just on the other side - and my heart jumped, my eyes teared up a bit, and I had to stop myself from clapping and chortling and jumping and saying out loud what I was yelling inside my head - "oh boy, oh boy, ohboy, it's Disney! Yeahhhhhhhhhh!"

So, what else did I do today?

Well, though yesterday was cold and dank and dreary and wet and I shivered when i ran across the street for a coffee, today the sky was blue and the sun shone warmly and the air had that nice slightly cool but smooth perfumed smell of a spring day. I think it was maybe 55 of 60 degrees.

So I left the theater, unwound my scarf and hung it over my arm, and started just walking . A few blocks later I heard the musical sound of La Francaise and sure enough there were three young men walking just behind me. They were good looking and casually dressed in that European way of nicely fitting jeans and nice shirts and jackets, and they were chattering away in Parisian French. I had been walking quickly to get my heart rate up, but hearing their voices slowed me down. I let them stay within earshot so the sound could wash over me. Finally, they stopped at a Bentley dealership and window shopped for a bit, then pushed each other through the door to look more closely.

Then, a block later, a thin young man in a dark suit was talking into that earpiece-mouthpiece contraption that let him talk on his "portable" hands free as he stood by a black towncar waiting for whomever he was driving - and yes, he too was talking in French.

Finally, two blocks later, a group of young men and women were standing at the curb talking about their days activities in..............yes, French! As if the world knew how strongly I am feeling my urge to jump back to Paris, even if just for a weekend. Or perhaps it was just that I was near the Hotel Sofitel - but I have walked by that hotel many times and never had this "on the streets of Paris" out of body experience before.

Then, I went to Bistro Zinc and had an oeuf poche' avec epinards and Hollandaise on English muffin, with little pieces of well spiced potatoes (that I only ate part of), along with a smooth glass of beaujolais, and finally a cappucino . I drank a lot of water and at the same time read the first two stories in the Murikami book "After the Quake".

Then, I left the restaurant and breathed in the warm air and felt the sun on my fact and decided to walk for a bit, and ran into a couple standing on a street corner with an unfurled map of Chicago, looking confused. They were in their fifties - he had white hair and a red face, she had blonde/brown short hair and wore a blue jacket. I always ask such people if Ican help them, and they took me up on it . They were staying at the Palmer House and had just fnished an architectural tour on the river where they were told of the Tiffany vaulted ceiling at the Cultural Center and wanted to somehow get there without navigating the oh so crowded Michigan Avenue so I told them they could head east and take the Lake route, and decided to accompany them. So this nice couple from Seattle and I then . walked to the Lake, back south to Navy Pier where we walked part way down the Pier (and I got someone to give them a tour of the Shakespeare Theater when intermission started), and then we walked the Navy Pier, North Pier, past the Sheraton, under the Columbus bridge along the Lake and River route back to the Cultural Center where I waved goodbye.

So I have not eaten badly today, and I did exercise of sorts, and I have blogged somewhat, and it is now 1:18 a.m. and I need to get some sleep, so I think I will set an alarm for very early so I can first finish the billing, and then walk to the end of Navy Pier or the Museum Campus to see the sun rise.

My Sister's Nostrils

I just watched that commercial about some kind of sucking candy that makes your lips pucker- the one where parents are moving their son into a dorm room, and the roomate (an Indian, or Native American kid with dark hair , moist dark eyes, and large nostrils at the tip of a prominent nose) gives the Mom a sucking candy, then interior monologues first the question of whether she likes it, then, from observing her puckered mouth sucking with exaggerated movements, and a slight glaze of joy in her eyes and upturn of her lips, telling himself that yes, indeed, she likes it -all the while sucking his candy with even more exaggerated motions that are something like kissing. And the dad and son walk in and observe the two with their eyes fixed on each other, their faces a couple of feet apart, their mouths sucking, and the very slight smiling upturns of their lips, and the son says "Mom!" and the dad drops his carton (which has a coffee pot in it).

That reminded me of my sister's nostrils. Strange, right? I remember noting to myself when we were young girls that she had rectangular, almost square shaped nostrils. Mine are oval. Most nostrils are oval. I just did a moment's research by obsrving the actors on an episode of "The Practice" (black and white) and in the advertisements between scenes, and sure enough, they are all oval. That's what I thought! But when I referred to those oddly shaped nostrils to myself (and sometimes others, or her) in the context of their shape, I always used the term "flagpoles." Not "flags" but "flagpoles". My mind was too lazy to complete the thought. Clearly, I was thinking of the rectangular piece of cloth, not the pole on which it hung, but nevertheless I used a simple shorthand the first time I voiced the thought, a wrong shorthand that was a reminder of what I really meant, but not the accurate metaphor, and then, after having done it once, my mind was too lazy to rethink it, but simply, repetitively, used the same wrong phrase always. Why?

That is the question I never thought of, until lately. It was simply a proclivity to fall, easily, into an habitual pattern of thought or action, without thinking. An avoidance of being fully aware of what I was thinking, or doing, once done. A need for repetition? For habit? For familiarity? A fear of change? A fear of the untried? A fear of failure? An anesthetizing of full awareness? Can I take this one small habit and see in it what has become a life habit? And, in so doing, if it has indeed become so, by seeing it, change that habit?

I don't know.

I know that as a child I feared change, as do most children. But more so than others? When my mom wanted me to go to camp I fought her and she gave in. I remember my fear. I feel it again clenching its fist in the bottom of my stomach. I didn't want to go away. I hated the idea of being in a strange bed, with people I didn't know. They might not like me.

I was very small, and I was very shy. "Shy." I don't know what that means exactly, except that I remember being very afraid - of so much. I was afraid to talk to people I didn't know . I was afraid to telephone anyone other than best friends. I was afraid of my teachers. I recall in the second or third grade how horribly embarrassed I was when I was too afraid to raise my hand to ask for a toilet break and, finally, the sphincter loosened from the pressure, the damn broke, and warm yellow liquid wet my pants and then my chair and then spilled onto the floor. "Look - she peed on the floor!"

I was little, and the rest of the world was big - so very big - like a giant in a Grimm fairy tale. I liked The Brothers Grimm, but I don't know why. I recall that those tales were rather gruesome - trolls and giants and horrible creatures. I also liked the Oz books, not just "The Wizard of Oz" but also "Ozma" and "Rik -i-Tik" and the others - and they, too, were filled with witches and other horrible beings, including a frightening Nome King living in a deep cave surrounded by wraith like Nome creatures whose bodies flowed and swayed against and into the stone walls, along with their long streaming hair and beards.

But in my real life, I didn't want adventure. I wanted to stay home with my mom and dad (and sister, my sometime enemy). I was afraid to be away and I still remember the comfort of walking back into my house after school each day, petting the dog, pulling out a bag of chips and some dip.

Fear and that "shyness" (a failure of self worth) ruled so much of my life. I dreamed of being a popular cheerleader, but I never tried out. I was so certain that I could never have made it. Nevertheless, years later, I learned to run a marathon, and to do yoga, and lift weights.

Today, I avoid the "shoulds" in my life by retreating to my quilted, kitty occupied couch life. I love so much curling on the couch in my messy apartment, a soft drink or water (every so often a glass of Bordeaux) and the remote and my Blackberry and a good book and the newspaper (and a bottle of Excedrin for my occasionally tweaky lower back muscle) all within easy reach to my right on the coffee table, my cuddling kitty just at my left shoulder on the top of the couch with her soft paw reaching for my arm, a quilt on mylap, clicking past unfamiliar shows into those I have learned to know and love - even reruns of episodes.

On the other hand, last month I attended an open house at a nearby college for a possible MFA. In July I ran off to France again for two weeks during my birthday month, including not only a week in my familiar neighborhood, at the left bank hotel where I know the owner and all of the employees, but also, and first, a week in the Aveyron, first taking two trains (with a short and uncertain connection) to the unfamiliar town of Figeac for two nights, then renting there a stick shift car (not having driven one for years) and driving on narrow country roads to the town of Villeneuve d'Aveyron, turning right down an even narrower road to the tiny Village of Mayrinhagues, and spending the week in a stone cottage, lighting a gas stove, listening to the morning sound of birds and barking dogs.

On the other hand, I failed to visit the town of Conques because of my fear of taking that little stick shift car onto highways for the hour or two it would require, fearing the speed, and the large trucks bearing down on me.

So, who am I? Am I a creature of habit, someone who needs to feel and taste the familiar to avoid fear? Or an individualist who salivates at the adventure of untried experiences and places ?

In college I didn't try anything truly new (except for some sexual experimentation, but never "all the way" out of fear of either my reputation or my skill, or perhaps both). I never thought to take a semester in Europe, to travel, to join the Civil Rights movement ( or even notice it existed or to care if I had noticed) I didn't join or even recognize the womens movement. . I wanted to do something creative but ended up first getting a teaching certificate and then going to law school - as I have called it so often , taking the paths of least resistance suggested by my parents. Who could I have been if I had instead travelled with a backpack through Europe, used my writing skills in any disciplined fashion?

I went from College, to law school, to a pretend marriage with someone as immature as I (a marriage that was more like two little kids playing house and having tantrums, then a mutual relationship between two adults - we pretended to be in love, neither of us having the ability to even guess what that should really mean) - and all out of fear of saying "no" to my parents, or "no" to my husband. Out of that failure to say "no" I entered the practice of law and a marriage , and moved on to motherhood (ok - let's not put motherhood into that inadvertant category - I was never sure I wanted to be a mother, and started that family out of my husband's insistence, but from the moment when my first son kicked against my innards, motherhood has always been a joy - had I followed my independant conscience instead of my fear of making the wrong choice or losing my last chance, had I developed a significant sense of self worth, and therefore had I not married at that time, I would have never produced my two sons and daughter and they would not have produced my grandchildren - a thought that is inconceivable).

But, continuing on into my analysis of my life of fear and stagnation and inertia . In the practice of law, the only thing I was confident of was my intellect - not my ability to talk to people, or my ability to think on my feet, or to reason, or to manage subordinates, or to do any of the things required of me as a lawyer. I admired one of my partners' ability to do all of those things. I would sit in his office and listen to him, with confidence and that Ivy League arrogance and that equally Ivy League humorless but socially acceptable (and required) laugh, questioning and advising clients on the phone, and fear that I could never learn how to do that. (Now, I am proud of my ability to deal with clients, and equally proud that I never developed any of his other characteristics, including his crying need to do what is considered "appropriate")

Today, in the context of law and business I have somehow developed the confidence that I could, if given the time, learn how to do anything, and the confidence and skill to deal with the interpersonal mind games needed for client control and relationships.

So, who the Hell am I? To what extent do fear and inertia rule my life? To what extent am I fearless and independant and free?

Why do I spend so much time here, on the couch, instead of here, at the computer, or there, on the road running as I once did and thereby bringing back that Audrey Hepburn body?

Why do I let so many months elapse without having written?

Why do I develop so many ideas for travel articles, and never get to them?

This blog is clearly erratic, badly written, meandering all over the place, and written without thought or writing skill. When, if ever, I develop a feel for it, and subject matter control, then, and only then, will I permit it to be read by others. In the meantime, at least it is something that I can go back to, and a place to save my morning thoughts.

Daily writing . That is at this point the only purpose. And a means to analyze who I am and out of that analysis perhaps discover a means to kick myself in my butt and move forward. I have been making some of the same promises to myself for now almost ten years. I know that by reading earlier writing, which I did this last week. Enough!