brain dump

I don't know if I'm going to get away with creating anything that's fun to read this time. Tell you what: if you want polished writing, just scroll down and skip ahead to "generation pap," the post I wrote this afternoon. If you want to play fly-on-the-wall and bear with diary-style scrawl, you're welcomed to peruse this post too.


A few days ago in the middle of the night I was jogging in place in front of the TV. That's often what I do for a workout. Suddenly, I started crying over Anwar. He'd left me so suddenly. I missed him and I needed to make more peace with his sudden departure. I think it was early this morning while trying to get to sleep that I made that peace. I realized that Anwar's new lady was probably taking good care of him and that he was probably very happy. He needed someone right away, whereas I would have had him wait 18 months while working through an annullment before we could get married.

I hope I never need someone right away. That would really narrow my choices.


I have to wash clothes, vaccuum this carpet... Sorry, carpet; I don't care for having carpet in my apartment. I'd rather have a wood floor and a happy little kittycat with his own door and his own ladder to get down to the ground where he can do his cat business. I'm more allergic to carpets than to cats.

Got forms to fill out, sundry tasks to rake together and sort out.


And Nicola, oh Nicola are you reading this? Did I ever tell you how mysterious our communication was? ...

The usual dynamic you get when two people converse involves about 6 personae -- Mike, Shanna, Mike as Shanna sees him, Shanna as Mike sees her, Mike as he thinks Shanna sees him, and Shanna as she thinks Mike sees her. If any of these folks are missing, there is a problem. One or both people will send in sonar to try to scope out the missing personae. Between Nicola and me, a bunch of them were missing. When I sent in sonar it took the usual form -- that of talking "too much" for the other person -- too much for Nicola.

Now, Nicola is a shadowy guy, and I'm sure that many people have this experience of him. He probably thinks that many people -- or that most women -- talk too much. Perhaps emailing him a few times a year is more of the same. But what can I do? By hugging the shadows, Nicola makes himself an irresistable mystery. How do I see Nicola? How can anybody see Nicola? What does he think of the things I say?

Lately I've been working up demo material for a cruise ship gig. Last night my allergy was so bad that I could hardly sing. I took steamy lemon honey tea and that worked somewhat. My guitar is standing by, daring me to add more music to today's to-do list, which I haven't even written yet.

I hesitate to write a to-do list because all the stuff is so sundry I can hardly wrap my head around prioritizing it. Well, it's 2:30 and these things need to be done. Later all.