No wonder why it has taken so long to get words on paper. What gypsy has the tenacity to sit and write? We write in our minds, we start paragraphs on one of the four computers scattered around. We can’t find the documents and fit them together. We write on our phones, in one of our 7 journals, on scraps of paper, but mainly we write in our heads. All the time. We buy new laptops and declare” this one is devoted solely to writing” but soon a kid picks it up, we can’t find it, and then can’t recall where we saved the document.
Or if it was saved at all.
It’s not easy being a gypsy. I don’t have a 401K, don’t plan more than two weeks in advance, make decisions on a whim. I leave one of my offices at the end of the day and bring everything with me because who knows if I will ever be back there? I could be dead or in another town altogether. Even if I am scheduled to be in the next day. My diplomas are in the basement because I don’t have an attachment to any workspace enough to hang them up. There is always a suitcase in the bedroom, ready for the next move.
Now I am a 58 year old trying to figure out what I want to be. Now don’t get me wrong; on paper it all looks very conventional. I am a medical doctor, specializing in Psychiatry. I have been married to the same man for 28 years, live in the house I grew up in, have 3 kids. But nothing is as it seems.
We’re going to get to know each other real well through this blog. We’re going to cover a lot of territory and have some fun. I’ll be a doctor, a guide and a friend, depending what we need. We are going to go light and we are going to go deep. No holds barred.
He’s got it right, the friend who wrote
about a woman wearing a man’s shirt,
the way she can pull his scent to her
and feel his arms around her again.
I think a man likes to see a woman
dressed in his shirt: the sleeves
dangling and the buttons and holes
that go together backwards, the stupid
grin on his face when she tells him
she’s going to pee, and he asks to watch.
She wraps the shirt more tightly
tries to fit her body into every
stitch and seam. She likes the way
the shirt holds her, so soft and so manlike:
that, and the sigh of his breath
in every thread, Yes, that most of all.
Karla Huston, Wisconsin poet
Black night, sliver of moon making
The small sliver, barely noticed by humans sheltered in their homes. If it seeps into their field of vision, they may glance from their heated hibernation.
Tell a stranger on the street to look up at the moon and they will curl a perplexed, patronizing brow for your unsolicited order. For the moon misses nothing, and holds it’s secrets tight.
Others are more than mere gawkers. They brave the cold to make a visit to the moon. Even when it appears the moon has turned it’s back. They intrude, not allowing for withdrawal
They love, no matter if the object of their love is constantly changing. And they get little in return. And are often ignored and pushed away. Their egoless selves keep coming back.
And then, out of the darkness,
a crescendo of light flows back into
the empty sphere.
With each day, pieces of shadowed crevices are bathed in a silver glow.
The full moon, the ‘grande dame’ receives the highest of praises.
Bright, fearless and unflappable;
the delusion of perfection.
Seeing the earth below and
Shedding light onto remote
To continue on, to surrender control,
recognizing its weightless suspension in space as an opportunity to explore.
– Anne Koplin
Why in the world would anyone posting their first post on their first blog write about Hula Hoops?
Because hula hoops are a metaphor. They represent what I write about in this blog.