Midnight Thoughts from A Blocked Writer

In the past week or two, I've attempted to compose several entries for both of my blogs.  They remain in blog limbo, saved but unfinished.  Evidently, I'm suffering from writer's block for lack of a more original phrase.  There's a great one on the nature of best friends and spouses and where the two relationships may, or may not, intersect in the real world.  I started what was intended to be a humorous entry on how a day full of plans and good intentions can be derailed by the smallest and most unintended, unintentional, unexpected of things.  And yet another attempts to encapsulate the day of my mother's back surgery, with several great pics which pained her in the taking, and the fears, feelings, and feedings which accompanied my role in that 24-hour stretch.

Mom and her Anesthesiologist

But it all feels false, flat, bland, blah, uninspiring, uninteresting, and just plain not there.  My writing voice has gone hoarse.  "I've got the laryngitis!" it says.  I sit down for a moment, fingers poised, hovering in anticipation of inspiration, and every winged thought which fluttered in my brain in the hours leading up to the moment whereby ideas are transposed into the written word suddenly decide to fly above and beyond the canopy with migratory intent.

Bright and Winged at Mom's Feeder

Perhaps it's simple brain overload.  After all, though my fondest and most passionate desire is to follow the path of stories forever running just ahead of me, brimming in rich verbiage and colorful expression, I am first and foremost a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend.  And several of those roles have come to a rather full head recently.  A gal can only juggle so many items on the head of a pin at any one time.  Doesn't matter the width of her eagerness and the breadth of her energy.

Yes, I AM Her Mother

    With April now at the helm of 2011, the effects of March yet urging the us denizens of the planet to take note in Japan, Libya, the West Coast's milk supply, and reminding me of the need and vulnerability inherent with our aging parents, there is a single shining gem of a moment which seems stuck in my head.  Wedged firmly in the gray matter housed beneath the thin film of protective dura is the spirit behind the final request of a now dead movie starlet with eyes the color of violets.  Elizabeth Taylor showed up at her own funeral fashionably late by fifteen minutes.  Style, humor, and a sense of self even in death.  Classic and classy.  Regardless of your thoughts on her love life.  She was one of a kind.

We all are.