but I WANT to drink the kool-aid

…even if the mothership isn’t coming to take us home and we’ll all be dead in the morning. I’m thirsty dammitt!

Its kind of amazing the difference that writing can make. I mean, the simple act of putting words on the page, it seems like such a small thing, and yet … Writers write because they must; it is not optional. Without the act, something slowly (or quickly) withers, rots, or just disappears. Without the act, the writer is somehow less than… different… un…


For the last four years, the only writing I can claim to have done is academic. And while yes, this is still writing, it is not writing, if you know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I love research, and am far more intimately acquainted with several academic databases than anyone really ought to be, but somehow my right brain was still feeling very, very sad no matter how often the left brain asked it to insert the term “virtual plethora” into an otherwise ho-hum paragraph. And lets face it people, “virtual plethora” will spice up any reader’s day. Its like the scotch bonnet pepper of descriptive phrases.

And what am I trying to say as I wander around this bush continually whacking it with such ferocity? That I am a little less un than I was before I started this… whatever it is… blog. It’s sort of a journal, but not exactly, as the biggest-baddest-deepest-darkest is still mine-all-mine (and my psychiatrist’s, of course). And it’s not exactly a mommy-blog, since there are no parenting tips, look-how-cute-my-kids-are pictures (although they are, and you would love them, except the best ones are always the naked ones and isn’t that considered kiddie porn?) and not all my posts are concerned with parentdom since that is not my entire life and (call me selfish) I need it that way. Its my life en writ, just like I’ve been doing for roughly the whole of it, except now I’m sharing with whoever wants to look. It reminds of my visit to Amsterdam (now there’s a future post…) and all the working girls in the windows of the Red Light district. So many of them were doing such normal things like sitting in a chair, reading a book, I think I saw one actually ironing. Granted, they were all in various levels of undress and/or interesting forms of lingerie, but still… is was life on display for whoever wanted to peek. Or stare openly. Or ogle with dropped jaws. Or piss on for that matter. Everyone pissed on the streets in Amsterdam. What a city. In oh so many ways. But that’s for another post…

So here’s to writing. To writing: To the Right Brain, the virtual plethora of meanderings done on endless drives along hwy12 in the middle of the night, to ginormous herds of deer who lose their way whilst searching for the elusive Teddy Bear Keggers that are rumored to take place in the ethanol corn fields of South Dakota, and here’s to my sister who harassed me into trying the cyber-crack that is facebook. “C’mon, go ahead. Try it. Just once won’t hurt…”


lemmings unite

I blame my sister for this. Not that she’s a bad person, I love her in fact. But she’s the one who started all of this with her shit about how I should sign up for facebook and be mainstream and bite the bullet because everyone’s doing it and why am I so reluctant anyway. So instead of doing the laundry, which is still threatening to invade the kitchen after it fully conquers the hallway (I give it another two days, maybe less — I wonder how it will cross the mighty mountain range of dishes and cutlery to reach the borders of the livingroom…), I turned on my laptop and started wandering around the blogosphere like some drunk kitten.

It was like… oh good god it was so tasty. Finding all of these intelligent, witty (WITTY!!!) posts that not only made me want to write again, I mean actually write for godssake, but pointed out repeatedly that I have been blogging ALL OF MY LIFE. Just not as such. I’ve got boxes and boxes and notebooks and folders and scattered pages of the same kinds of stuff that I’ve been reading. Maybe other people will read it, maybe not. Maybe I will invite family and friends, maybe not. Maybe I’ll be less than anonymous, maybe not. But I’ve already walked to the end of the plank, why not just-