Almost

Has it really been a month since I last blogged? I suppose so. Over a month. I stopped checking off the days on my calendar, well, when I last had a calendar to check the days off. Maybe I need to buy a planner or something so that I will recognize the days again.

I haven't wanted to write. There is too much that is too much right now that writing seems inadequate. And then I read a story from Kapka or a poem by K and I realize I'm doing more injury to myself than necessary. But what to write about? There are things on my list: an article for Clark Memorandum (very sterile and simple, but still); a personal essay for Gideon about London (the one I wrote in London was crap and Gideon called me on it); journal entries, poetry, letters. I need to write (platonic) love letters to the world at large and everyone individually.

I keep thinking of poem 5 from Tennyson's "In Memoriam." I probably just botched the title, but it's in the Norton anthologies. Go look it up. I want to use it as an excuse--that writing is always inadequate. But this time I know it's not true. This time writing is the only answer.

I love you (you is plural).