I feel an obligation, a desire, to keep posting, but it’s challenging these days. I’m encountering life-altering problems.
I could start with a news story. Glenn Greenwald had a great column last week in reaction to the debates. Why don’t I just snap on my professional blogger face and write about that?
That would mean ignoring my tension, confusion and fear. Also nervousness and anger. Some jealousy. A lot of self-doubt. Grief. Guilt.
Ruth, none of these vague labels constitutes good writing.
I know. But I’m still too shell-shocked for the artist in me to get to work. If I forced myself to try poetry it would sound like this:
You left. You died. You’re silent and I don’t know what to do. I’ve fucked up—
Ruth, you can’t blog this shit. Besides, that’s not poetry.
Two years ago, when G was alive and we were becoming dear friends, Sam was in the hospital. I wrote a post about how all the people who loved her would keep her faith for her. Since G died, Mom has taken to reminding me of that post. She says she’s holding my faith for me. So there is hope.
I’ll try again later.