Bad, bad blogger. Sorry, it has been way too long.
I turned 31 last week. It's sort of one of those very adult birthdays. Too adult. Like you should go and buy yourself some shredded wheat or something.
Staying put for as long as I have is making me sooooo itchy. Not that I have any real idea of where to run off to or how to get my very responsible professor husband to play hookie. So of course I'm trying to find the legitimate reasons for my escape. I need to do an MFA (no - I probably don't). Yes I do! I do! I do! I do! (Why?) Cause I can walk around Greenwhich Village dressed as a post-millennium copy-cat hippy. (A+ on the originality) And I must write!!! Dammit!! Write I say!!!!! The art is calling me!!! (And you can't do that where you are because . . .?) There are cows and horses looking at me. I need to suffer in the city. (Doubtful.) Are you questioning my muse!!! She will not take that! No she won't!!! (yes, I'm Irish, one of the only two nationalities in the world singled out by psychologists as the most likely to suffer from schizophrenia. And to boot - I have the other nationality on my mom's side! Seriously, I'm not schizophrenic. Herbie the 7 foot purple hamster I live with would have told me so.)
So I'm chatting with my friend last night telling her about my scheme to get my 4th degree (Hello, my name is Kaye, and I can't stop signing up for shit). Her response: Kaye . . . meet Fun. Fun . . . Kaye. Her point? I often find the hard way to loosen up. True, I'm a nerd. A ridiculously focused nerd who can be a little too snobbish in what she finds "interesting." Phooey.
And part of me wonders if I am not avoiding the embrace of a new turn in life. After a decade worth of proving myself, I am being offered the top slots like "director" of work projects, "creator" of educational content, and even the person who gets to teach meditators how to teach meditation to novices. If I'm an addict for anything, it's the open realm of possibilities, and maybe my inner twitchiness comes from the idea that my path is getting a little more defined. It's kind of like when you endlessly flirt with someone, egging them on to notice you - and then they do, and you go - oh, right, that's so, ummm, great.
But the truth is, one of the only definitions I am happy to take in life is the title of writer. Hell, even the guy who drives the Oscar Meyer hotdog truck can call himself "Director of Mobile Meat Snacks" (and that's no diss on the Oscar Meyer hotdog truck man). But saying you are a writer means you write. And I am very, very insistent that I stay a writer. Even if, like now, I take a break from the writing (itty bitty break, I swear) - I. AM. A.WRITER. Hear me roar. This isn't just ego talking. The writing is what I love. It's scary as shit. And really, to get the job done, you sit your ass in a chair, write, and keep up with great writing. There's another topic - Define "great" writing. I'd rather not right now. I'll just stick with what I know. If anyting, I think I need to maybe stick my fingers in my ears and go "la! la! la! la! la!!!" But I'm a sucker for a community of like-minded artisits. Did I mention my friend has also pointed out that I am a relentless idealist?
About a month ago, KDawg was talking about lilacs. Interesting because these are my father's favorite springtime bouquet, and one that makes him very melancholy. Me, a whif of the lilacs fading into the heady green of a wet summer makes me restless. As my father would say - it is still spring afterall.