It's hot out. In a minute I will step from my air-conditioned abode and go for a jog. Actually, it will probably be a pseudo-jog. You know, where I strap on a sports bra, lace up my running shoes and then! Walk. But still feel justified later when I eat twelve tacos.
Bud Light, that prick, did me wrong last night. I was up until three o'clock in the morning deeply engrossed in forensic crime shows. While I am now hung over I am confident I could murder anyone and no one would be the wiser. Not even Grissom from Vegas CSI, that somber smarty-pants.
I think I'd like to end up in Pennsylvania. I love it there. Communities without pretension. Godsakes, who is less pretentious than the Amish, I ask you? Although I long to travel more, I don't want flash. A home, a porch, a grill. I'm cool with that. And when we get bored with ourselves Pa and I can hitch the horse to the wagon and make for the big city for a dose of culture. It's a short drive (well short by Utah standards, where you have to drive for hours just to cross a state line) from where my Mother-In-Law lives to New York. I don't have any big-city, corporate aspirations but I love the life crackling through New York City. Until I feel like I might stab the next person who bumps into me and then I hate it and long for mountains and trees.
I miss Serge. But I'm excited for his new record to come out. There's a song there that he wrote for me the first Christmas after we got married. It tickles me pink to remember him playing it for me that first time on his acoustic guitar. A skeleton song. Now the flesh and bones have developed and it's brilliant. I love it.
Writing has kicked my ass a little lately. For various reasons. But I have to keep at it else I fear I may fall away from it entirely. Just keep writing every day, I tell myself. Even when you've got nothing to say, just type. Which is what I'm doing today, obviously. If you've made it this far, congratulations! I guess that's why I don't have comments anymore. I'm paddling through a more journalistic blog experience as opposed to when I desired interaction. But please, feel free to email. I read them all and appreciate anyone taking time out of their day to drop me a line. So yes, if you're reading, thanks for that. I realize there are trillions of blogs out there and your renewed interest in anything I churn out gives me a lift.
The nice thing about writing as a career (or a desired career) is I'll never be too old, don't ever have to retire, can only keep improving and trying. And if, on my death bed, nothing was ever published, I have this massive collection of writing. This crazy, wonderful history of my marriage to the love of my life. Not many people can say they have documented their marriage, almost daily, from the moment they met their spouse. God, I wish I had thousands of pages from my Mom's youth to pore over. While the personal lives of strangers intrigue me, reading journals written by my Mom would thrill me no end. What was she like? Before marriage, four kids, divorce, poverty, before life chewed on her. I'm so pleased that I've kept at it. Fortunately or unfortunately for my children, being a recovering Mormon means geneology and journaling is encoded in my DNA and so they'll have a wealth of stories to wade through if and when they're so inclined.