My pen died and I'm at St. Elmo's (part trois)

 I have two blog posts coming up soon. I can't remember, but they are in my calendar. At least one will be about Ashley Bryan.  

Dancing Queen, Abba.

I have Kevin Henke's Chrysanthemum next to me for writing juju.

I have the title for my book: "Sending Cupcakes, Love Suzi: a memoir" by Suzi Wackerbarth

I need to get back in touch with cupcake girl. Whatshername, she who eats Tangerines. 

Wrote an email. 

Time to walk home. 

My pen died and I'm at St. Elmo's (part deux)

 All fancy, using French in the title. The guy ahead of me has a crazy tat sleeve. Like wow. 

Jump for your love. 

The sad thing is that this is more writing than I've done in forever, listening to this loud music, typing. Is it any good? Who cares? I'm writing!!

Portions of "Love Actually" are good, like when Hugh Grant had to smoke pot to dance down the stairs. L learned the smoke pot part because I read about movies.

UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

And my hair is really short. I went from a full head of hair to...like very little hair. I wonder when my next one on one is. Because I need to talk to Erin about the fact that the kids scare me and I feel like I'm in the wrong job when they are around. 

A little white lady like you? Working with the homeless? Why does this come again and again back to my mind? I bought a bottle of water so that I could sit in here. And part of me wants to take it to the guy who lives outside of CVS. 

Gotta use the WC, so return for part trois. 

My pen died...and I'm at St. Elmo's (part 1)

On the way to St. Elmo's, the busiest coffee house in Del Ray, on Del Ray Ave, the same St. that Vance lives on, I found two amazing bestsellers in the Little Free Library. 

Luckily I had a bag. Luckily I had my laptop, so here I am writing. 

I just published a bunch of drafts. I don't think anyone reads this anymore. There's a woman with headphones (serious headphones) and her laptop. I don't know where my headphones are, so I'm listening to Stevie Wonder (I just called to say I love you), Diana Ross (On the Radio) and Michael Jackson (We gotta be starting something). 

I'm addicted to buying digital classes online. I have bought at least 2 Spanish programs. Plus St. Elmos in Spanish.

Meanwhile, I want new sandals, that yoga mat, and the American Dream (Do a little Dance, Make a Little Love, Get Down Tonight).

And email is not sending. Let's see if these are. 

Long time no write (from 5/30/22)

Depression has returned. 

Ugh. 

I thought writing about it might help.

Writing isn't helping. 

The truth? I'm afraid of life. Afraid of death. Specifically the death of my parents. 

Because I have seen my parents as my fall back. 

My cousin points out that my sister and brother will be my fall back. 

What am I looking for

My spiritual director gave me this image: a mosaic is made of tiny little broken pieces and if you focus on them, you don't see the whole beautiful picture, which is made of tiny broken pieces. 

I'm afraid to write. I'm afraid of what I'll find if I look inside, because I was so happy with a relationship built on sand and now I'm alone and getting back to myself but slowly. 

But I'm starting a writing class on July 11, so I'd better get writing again, back into the groove. I don't know what to write, what to write...the garden at church is a beautiful place. I wrote a haiku there. I didn't spend time in the garden yesterday like I said I would. 

Write write write. There are mosaics in Samantha Way in Highland Park. I saw them the last time I was at the Randalls in Pittsburgh. It hurts too much to remember, and remembering is what writing is. And I stink. I need a shower so badly. 

I guess I'll take a shower. 

My psychiatrist died...in September.

 I found out yesterday, because a refill didn't go through and I thought, you know, I should check for an obituary. 

I'm with a new practictioner, because in his hospital bed he was not able to manage my meds or do a Zoom call. I said goodbye to his answering machine in August-ish. (I know the time frame only because I was still at my old branch, I can see myself pacing and talking into the answering machine.) So, I didn't get a registered letter when he died. (I read all the comments on the guest book to his obituary, some people did get registered letters.) I feel guilty for not sticking with him to the end. I feel guilty for not calling him personally. I wonder if I have voice mails in my phone...