When you delete an email in Gmail, the following phrase appears in highlighter yellow:
This conversation has been moved to the Trash.Just thought this might be helpful when walking away from rabid teabaggers.
It's an age-old quandary, well, since the age of written communication anyway: writing takes time and energy. It is the living part of my (godhelpme) facebook status: The minutiae of sustenance is the getting in the way of living. Conversely, depression drives many of us to write, which is often therapeutic but not often conducive to good writing. There are exceptions, of course, but I am not one of them.
So while I toil with the turmoil and wrangle with the tangle, enjoy this.
This poem from today's Writer's Almanac picked my spirits up:
Naming My Daughter
In the Uruba tribe of Africa, children are named not only at birth but throughout their lives by their characteristics and the events that befall them.
The one who took hold in the cold night
The one who kicked loudly
The one who slid down quickly in the ice storm
She who came while the doctor was eating dessert
New one held up by heels in the glare
The river between two brothers
Second pot on the stove
Princess of a hundred dolls
Hair like water falling beneath moonlight
Strides into the day
She who runs away with motorcycle club president
Daughter kicked with a boot
Daughter blizzard in the sky
She who sells sports club memberships
One who loves over and over
She who wants child but lost one.
She who wants marriage but has none
She who never gives up
Diana (Goddess of the Chase)
Doris (for the carrot-top grandmother
she never knew)
Fargnoli (for the father
who drank and left and died)
Peter Pan, Iron Pumper
Tumbleweed who goes months without calling
Daughter who is a pillar of light
Daughter mirror, Daughter stands alone
Daughter boomerang who always comes back
Daughter who flies forward into the day
where I will be nameless.
It is difficult to tease out whether this is just the upper half of my normal loquacious cycle or the result of the quarterly switch-over of sleep-disorder meds. I'm leaning towards the latter. Why? Because then it's not some cracked-out aspect of my personality...it's just the speed.
However charming or witty or urbane I may have been today, I wish I could just shut-the-hell-up because I'm a exhausted with sound of my brain churning out thoughts and my mouth trying to keep up with the deluge.
like an epiphany, only smaller