To write

Truly, when people speak to the hole in them somewhere, they have not realized they are already there. That reality is an illusion and in the rawest place a woman will not find, not feel, but know viscerally the energy that never leaves, that has existed, that is, and is still being created. And having been to a pain so deep, so un-original, the awe, and the miracle of words that have never formed gives a place to start.

I thought the well was dry. The paints & glue were put away. The muse gone. Actually I don't know where in the hell the muse is, but if I don't start writing again the words will remain in the sucky shadows  -- I think she will show when I read my friends. I felt that tickle of familiarity, of impetus, of recognition that gives voice to my own feelings has I visited a few blogs that I read before. They had changed too. No one came out of this last 18 months unscathed. Their voices sounded older, more mature, seeking as well, speaking to a world at odds and ends and finding that niche that gives to others while taking care of self.

So every day or every other day I will pick a random topic to either pull a piece of fiction from, philosophize, or generally wax on, hopefully authentically --  and I will read, read, read my old blogging friends.
And occasionally I will put up a piece of photography, maybe draw the sillycyn and perhaps announce that my knees hurt from the bike ride the other night.

And yes, I live in a trailer park now-- no getting around it. No more putting my hand on a wall to see if it's real.

A 55+ community, a1977 mobile home close in the noisy city is a radical change. With radical character's.