things.

sometimes i get so tired that i can't word anything right on my own.
some things you want may just never be right patty griffin tells me.

today is hard. <==that one is mine.

the remnants of jetlag are a heavy blanket on decisions and dilemmas, hearts and souls. circumstances.
(darlin, i wish you well.)

how are we to live, grace paley's dying friend asked. like this, today.
is that right?

i'm so young.

May you dream you are dreaming, in a warm soft bed
And may the voices inside you that fill you with dread
Make the sound of thousands of angels instead
Tonight where you might be laying your head

(amen.)

this much.

my nephew, bob (yes, the vacuum-obsessed one), became a four-year-old yesterday. man, i remember well the day he came around and made summer really happen for all of us newly-dadless sisters. our father bob died. a new bob came around. the sky heard many thank yews.

bob and i talked on the phone yesterday. to keep a four-year-old talking, you have to keep asking questions.

have you opened presents?
did you sing happy birthday?
did you blow out candles?
how much do you love me?

to question number four, bob answered: this much, aunt anne.
peggy said he held up all five fingers on one hand as he said it.

he loves me like five.
that's enough to almost let myself feel loved.

home.

just a quick note to say: hello. i am home. safely.
so tired.

and i have to go to work tomorrow.

i'm already in bed, still-packed bags in the middle of my floor.
(did i ever leave?)

england. ireland: i miss you.

good
night.

the real world

well, it is sunday afternoon in belfast, in jayne's red room, at her computer. (and she just started a blog, so do visit. often.)

we've kept the sabbath by sleeping in and watching amelie (make that #7 for me), eating wheaten bread with jam and cheese, and of course, book reading. it's semi-sunny today with non-ominous clouds serving as backdrop to the view out jayne's window.

the strangest part about such a quiet lazy day is the fact that in about 48 hours, i'll be back in the real world. rather, my real world. it'll be me in cubicle, catching up on two week's worth of email and voice mail, and mail mail. driving on the right side of the road. no public transportation or bodies of water within my reach. and no raincoats. strange. a girl could get used to this (i.e. non-real world).

i've found that it is easy to write here. inspiration has been pervasive and not very polite. i've woken up nights, sweating with something like an idea, hoping that the sweating in itself makes it a good idea, because i'd hate to sweat over a bad idea. and my friends ask, so, whatcha writing about? and my answer is, um....

muses, creativity, bravery, et al are an intimidating bunch.

back to my book.
(it's a good day to read, curled up in a chair, listening to the about a boy soundtrack or maybe even patty griffin. yeah, patty griffin...)