because I am so moved . . .


moved as in motivated, not emotional.
Let’s not get crazy. It’s rare enough that I feel compelled to write.
I certainly shall not be having emotions while doing so.

At any rate, I composed an essay while my head was upside down over my tiny bathtub during my miraculous hair washing. Miraculous because it is only due to an ice storm that I had time to bathe—for the first time in 3 days.
Ridiculous. But we Americans are overly concerned with hygiene anyway, so let’s call it an experiment, or water conservation. Anything other than just-plain-dirty.

That essay, now flushed from my brain, rinsed down the pipes with the grime, will not be making any sort of appearance. But I am attempting to get thoughts out of my head more often. I’m an only child and a pretty serious introvert who is obsessed with knowledge and well practiced in observation, so lots of words get stuck up there. Sometimes my brain feels like a fountain recycling its own water, or a plane cabin full of stale air. So, it is time to drain or depressurize, whichever metaphor you prefer.

I have always hesitated to call myself a writer, mostly because I feel that title relates to someone who puts words into form with some regularity. I am a composer of verbage, but nearly never put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. I put words together inside my head carefully because there was a time when I did not speak out loud anything that wasn’t properly rehearsed mentally first. I appear well spoken as an adult only because I have scripts. For every situation. And finally after 38 years on the planet I am comfortable altering or abandoning them, but they have given me a good foundation and some confidence ultimately. That said, I spent most of my time with other humans in observer mode for the better part of 20 years, so even now my talk and writing style is more reporter than poet. *shrugs*

My creative expression has always existed in other outlets—painting, acting, design, photography. And when I am not involved in an artistic pursuit my word flow gets even more clogged.

So, I haven’t taken a picture in weeks. It’s cold and wintry and I have been working so much. Even my Instagram is sadly lacking. I have had to cut back on traveling and doing theatre for awhile. I haven’t painted or collaged in so long. The house is such a mess that I can’t bear to make more messes. Especially ones I would probably only half clean up with this nutty schedule.

I am carrying a notebook. And taking a writing class online.


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