Hello, everyone. I have been attempting to come up with something interesting for a post, which led me directly to an issue I have with writing: I try to write what I think I SHOULD write, which constipates me, creatively speaking. I judge every line I write, thinking that a certain word is trite or cliche, or that I could have expressed an idea or observation better than I did, and so on. What results from that is a total lack of posts, much time wasting on various Internet sites designed to ruin one's creative impulses (whoops, I used the word "creative" twice, do I need to correct that?) and a sense that one is a total failure as a "writer," whatever the hell that is. What is a "writer?" Someone who writes occasional posts on a blog? Someone who is published?
The above picture is Connor James, my perfect nephew. I feel that I should mention something about what a miracle he is, now much I love him, how much we all adore him, or something profound about new life. However, even though all of those previous observations are true and would make relevant blog entries, all I can manage to say today is this: when I was contemplating his funny and beautiful face last Sunday, I thought:
He has so much to endure. School. Girlfriends. Stupid boys. Barney. Global warming. Potty training. His weird aunt. He'll have to attend my funeral one day. Will he cry because I was so amazing, and he can't imagine life without me? Damn. That's almost too much life. That was the first thought. The second was: crap, I'll have to start over just like him one day. I felt total exhaustion at the thought of starting over. I wondered if we had a choice in the matter. I rather doubt it. One day, I'll wake up screaming as cold hands pull me out of another stretched-out chi chi. I hope that I won't remember too much of this life . . . otherwise, I'll be yelling for Ty or Imanya. "WHERE ARE YOU GUYS? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? AM I A BABY AGAIN???? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO . . . " but there you go. I'll be on another journey, whether I like or not.
Why do I think I'm destined to go around again? I sure as heck have not achieved anything like Enlightenment. I have not earned the right to expand my consciousness to encompass the Great Chain of Being or whatever. I haven't learned enough. Yes, I have another 50 years or so if I'm lucky, but somehow it just doesn't seem like enough time for me to figure out the Big Questions, much less the Big Answers.
Yes, C.J. is wonderful. I can now identify his wail from those of 1,000 other babies. That makes me heart melt a little. A lot.
So I wrote this today, with only 5 minutes left before Imanya and I are supposed to be at G-Mama's. So I feel like a writer today. It feels good.
(I dedicate this post to C.J. and Mosca)
