I just found out that the German word for armadillos is "panzerschwein" - tank pig. It was the question on final Jeopardy last night (and I was very pleased that I figured it out).
And with that I'm trying, once again, to return to the blog. Why? For me. I miss it. I started off my first blog as an easy way of sharing my life with my parents and some friends. This was long before FaceBook. And Bob enjoyed it. Something would happen, or we'd take a good picture, and the question would be "is this blog-worthy?" It was a way of recording the highlights of our life.
The parents are gone, as is Bob. And with FaceBook (and instagram, and whatever the hell everything else is) no one reads blogs anymore. But I want it.
In 19th century Russia we write letters, we write letters
We put down on paper what is happening in our minds
Once it's down on paper we feel better, we feel better
It's like some kind of clarity when the letter's done and signed
So go the lyrics to a song from the musical "Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812" which Google Music decided I would like (and I do).
When Bob was close to finishing a model, we would set up the little photo booth and take a bunch of pictures, which he would then pull up on the computer to study, even though he could look at the model itself right in front of him. By creating that step of separation, he could stand back and look at it as a judge might, seeing what was really there rather than what he thought. He could see little mistakes, perhaps a fingerprint, a piece askew.
That's what I want to do - take a step back from my life and get a perspective on it. My earlier blog posts were basically essays. I would think about what I was going to write, maybe do a draft, tidy it up. Now, at least for now, it seems like too much effort. I just have a lot of crap to get out of my head. There's a book called "The Artist's Way" (of which I can't currently seem to find my copy) that her first exercise was called the morning pages. You were supposed to start each morning by writing three pages. Nothing pretty, nothing organized, just something to clear the garbage out of your head.
My friend Los (who lost his wife Ellen last September), has every day, without fail, written on FaceBook a long, rambling, stream-of-consciousness post as he is trying to remember every moment of his life with her. But we are also getting glimpses into his healing. I don't want to be that public. But journaling is almost too private (although I still write in my grief journal, especially if I've dreamed of him). Besides, I type much faster and more legibly than I write. And I'm going to try doing that for awhile. Word barf. Type whatever I'm thinking. See what it's showing. Get this swirling story that is my life out of my head and then pick through the bits. 2020 was about shock, and grief, and survival. 2021 is about learning about who I am, as a single person.
And that's enough for the first post.
