
really, this time i'm writing here.
daily actually. i have assigned myself an Interim like the college kids get. and "for" interim, i'm taking a writing class. Ken, "really? where?". Right here, really. I'm planning to write every day, like a student does even if i don't want to. The direction as the moment is shaky. Yesterday I said absolutely nothing to myself or to anyone else. All complaining on a stupid big blank white word document. ick. [now THAT was like school. ick again].
i don't think "journaling" is what i want. journaling just may = complaining
i feel like conversation actually and find myself once again very, very lonely most days, but i don't imagine that i will have a confidant for now.
today, i'll post a Sylvia Plath poem that was a raw gift to me at lessons and carols of all things. it embodies i lesson i know but couldn't begin to express this way.
later..........