Monday, September 2, 2019

Mushroom Spaceship

I don't even know how to write in this space anymore. I don't know how to write in any space anymore. I don't know what space I'm actually occupying anymore. I don't know if I'm even a writer at all anymore. My best writer friends are always so very busy writing.  I am busy not writing or should I say (write) not busy writing. It's only words. I might be beginning my life as not a writer.  I didn't write for ten years when baby Sophie was diagnosed and maybe I'm on another ten-year bender that I'm hard put to blame on anyone but possibly it's the pospotus and possibly it's because there are members of my family who are still devoted to him and the republican party and possibly it's just because I turned 56 the other day and my hips started hurting in the middle of the night to mark the occasion and make a mockery of my otherwise robust physical health that I've taken for granted by never exercising and eating cake without regrets. I went for a vigorous walk today, though, on the second of September in the two thousand twentieth year of our lord jesus and came upon a mushroom spaceship  (speaking of space) that had just landed, and a tiny door opened on the underside and I saw a tiny little creature inside and a vast world beyond, beckoning, and I almost did it, almost left.

Maybe it's because I miss Oliver and will soon miss Henry as he's off to a semester in Italy later this week.

I don't want to lose touch here, though, lose the community of beloveds. So, I'm here doing what's not really writing but was it ever really writing anyway?

See, I've nothing to write that isn't a whine. Or is it whinge? Does anyone use the word whinge? Reader, look it up and just listen to how it's pronounced! God, I do love words even though I'm not writing them.

As per the history of my fifty-six years on the planet, I'm still reading words. Right now it's Valeria Luiselli's Lost Children Archive (it's a slow read but good and has a rad structure that would be inspiring if I were a writer) and Darcy Steinke's Flash Count Diary (menopause and orcas) and an amazing graphic memoir called Good Talk by Mira Jacob.

Reading, she said, is my only constant.

In other news, my job as Teacher of English Literature begins this week, and I am so excited. I've missed the girls over the summer and am not even whinging about the hosiery I'll have to put on despite the dog days heat.

I should have always been a teacher instead of writer.


  1. Don't give up on Writing, you do it so well even when you Believe you aren't Writing... and please don't lose touch here, we enjoy your Posts however critical you might be of them yourself! We're often our own worse critics and not as Kind to ourselves as we might be to everyone else. Henry going off to Italy for a Semester sounds so exciting for him! Occupying Space can take so many forms that I certainly can relate to sometimes not knowing what Space I occupy anymore either. Belated Happy Birthday... the aches and pains of growing Older are common and beats the alternative of not growing Older... but it certainly is a somber adjustment isn't it?

  2. You can be both a teacher and writer, you're just kind of busy at the moment with work and Sophie. And you miss your boys. Your writing will come back when it's time, when there's time.

  3. You'll always be a writer. You've always been a writer. You are a writer.
    I don't think you have a choice.
    You're not whining or whinging. You're reporting.

  4. Your voice is distinctive. A storyteller's voice. And your photos always engage me. That spaceship looks like it evolved from a sand dollar. 56 years old is good. I hope you keep on doing what you do in this community of beloveds. Your students are fortunate in having you as their guide in the world of English Literature. Sending love to you and your family, near and far.

  5. Dear brilliant friend, reading is writing. I too feel hammered by the “currant political climate” seeing you there observing the natural world so closely reminds me that what I am doing/not doing is still writing. And you will always be ten years younger than I and this is something to celebrate with cake.

  6. You’re a writer. Period. You are always writing in your mind. That makes you.

  7. Is this an appropriate time to quote the saying : you contain multitudes ?
    I've alway loved that quote even though I know nothing of its context. Being Dutch. And too lazy to find out.
    Anyway, more cake please.

  8. You're a writer, even in how you read, and I hope you keep coming here and tapping on keys, because I would miss you so much if you didn't. So many complicated emotions when our children leave, especially the baby. Sometimes the threads are hard to pick apart. Whine, whinge, rage, cry, bring whatever emotion obtains in that moment. We love and embrace all of it, all of you.

  9. You are a writer. Take a break if you need to, read and rest. But You Are A Writer.

  10. You ARE a teacher! (And a writer.)

  11. Even a field must lay fallow at times. It's hard, not writing, feeling like its something you did and will never do again. But not-writing right now is also part of being a writer: you'll find your way back. Or rather, you'll realize you've been here all along, writing. I love your writing. Be kind to yourself too.

  12. I think writing is just in your DNA. You've probably always been writing, even if not pen to paper. I'm sure you write in your mind every day. And when you have time to write those words down here they are a treat no matter what they convey. I love them and would miss them dearly if I could not read them anymore. Relax, rest your head on the paper, I'm sure the words will come out when they are ready.

    I'm so glad you love your teaching. It must be a wonderful feeling walking into that classroom everyday. You know, someday those young womem will look back and remember you very fondly, just as you remember the best of your teachers fondly. I envy them.

  13. You are the brightest bravest spirit of both.

  14. People DO say whinge! I hear it now and then here in Merry Olde England. Once a writer, always a writer!



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