10 years since my last post, Coronavirus, marriage, and joy vs. grief

I've never thought about how my writing could ever "affect" anyone. It's simply therapeutic. I dive in, make things up, or I tell the truth, I exaggerate. Often and a lot. I like it. 
I've never edited my work. I just keep "pen to paper" and go on, and on, and on...
The last time I was into writing I was dating, uncertain, lacking creativity because I had always written best during times of grief. At this point in life I will write less creatively and more about a subject. Mortality.
I married the guy I was dating the last time I blogged. We live in Washington, DC. We have the smartest, more adorable 4 year old son, Jay.
A lot of my thoughts are about Jay. What this experience and "lockdown" may do to him, how he will be shaped. Mostly I think about my own death.
I want to keep a journal about our time isolating from the dangers of Sars-CoV-2, Covid-19, Coronavirus. The blog posts to come will be my thoughts on this.
I love you, those who may be in my life.
Welcome back, me. The writer. I'll find my way back.

essays

I'll be writing a personal essay (for class)on one of two things...
Either the topic of how waiting tables (serving) has contributed to my patient care skills
or
an old blog from long ago, more of a fictional piece.
Thoughts? The topic is open as it is our last paper.

Gotta get into the writing mood....

Injured squared

if only it were that easy.
to drift effortlessly away into the nothingness that ive become.
forgotten and alone i sit wishing for my old identity.
what is it about a career that defines who we are? why doesnt anyone remember me?
i made that life my life and then one day my life ended.

and i havent been able to get it back.

i found something else.
something old and familiar and easy
easier than cake and much more stale.
i crave a new flavor and something with frosting.
but everything makes me yawn.
and everything hurts.

i feel like ive been murdered. and i keep reliving my death.
maybe i killed myself?

thinking about writing... again

I have moments.
Moments of inspiration come suddenly. i'm rarely thinking its worthy of anyones time.

school is taking up so much. and it is really all i have right now. i keep taking these stupid jobs that get me by for a few months and then i go away. No one calls no one answers emails when i try to reach out.

i ramble
that is why i keep waiting for the inspiration to come.

but my paintings are going well...

i wish i had a real job or an identity.

futile attempt

futile. incapable of producing any result; ineffective; useless; not successful: Attempting to force-feed the sick horse was futile. Is it also a feeling? I am hoping for the best in this transition. To have made a firm decision, in a real partnership, to leave a talent behind for a few years to take the chance of possibly strengthening it.... tough choice. Nothing worth having comes easy. Like relationships. It would be so much easier to be alone. But I am committed to stick around until one of us can find a way to fuck it up. So I keep rambling, hoping for some revelation and some pancakes. Watching the travel channel makes me want things I don't know I need. But I need 'em. I wonder about my choices since losing my job almost a year ago. I've tried like hell to find another, was complimented on my accomplishments just to watch others get the job instead. I feel that my decision is sort of a cop out. That if I am a student, I can get away with being broke, uninsured, injured and living with pain and hoping for a future. I made some kick ass money. And its gone. I have too many choices and I picked just one. I AM following the dream I've dreamt for 13 years. So I wonder. Do I have faith in myself and what I've done? uh huh. huh. ok. Y. ? I wonder about...

out of practice

It has been 8 months since I last attempted to blog.

To be honest, I think I have lost the ability to communicate. I stutter with words, I lose interest in my own stories. I have heard them all before.

There has to be something out the to inspire me.

But I have nothing but a beginning that I have yet to begin. A story to write eventually.

Fruitless and failing

I can see my happiness growing out of arms reach.
Balancing carefully on his fingertips as I watch him grow taller.

He has transformed from my rock to my tree.
Swaying in the wind I am creating to expose his branches.
He has become something to stare at.
Fruitless and bare.

The climb is unfamiliar on my way up to this happiness I feel he holds up there.
If I shake him it never falls down.

And so I chase after it, wrapping my legs around him one by one.
I pull myself closer and each time I fall I land flat and confused.
Arms scratched and ego bruised, I get up.

I shake him again.

If only I would realize...

He would meet me half way if I learned to stop creating the wind and see that he is not that much taller than I.