I was so frustrated. I took the laptop to Jason the Guru to see if he could somehow retrieve it with some Mac voodoo. But no. It was gone, even beyond his reach. It is so upsetting to spend so much time on something and then to lose it. And it always eats away at me: write a new post, write a new post. . . So I did. But there was nothing to show for it. Instead of trying to re-write it, I watched two episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. That put it all into perspective right-quick.

I have so much trouble writing when I am in a mood such as tonight. I don't want to write what is on my mind. Because it is too depressing, too personal and too confusing. A glimpse: I went to the grocery store this afternoon and as Ollie and I were picking out produce, I was nearly brought to tears because a heavy sadness descended upon me like a physical pain in my heart and took my breath away. And why? Because something about the smell of nectarines and peaches always makes me really, overwhelmingly sad. Can I explain this? Not easily.

I am just oddly configured, psychologically. I always have been, ever since I can remember. (And my first memory is from 9 months of age.) Not right. I know, I know, there is no "right." But it has been documented and diagnosed that I am more "not right" than the average, run-of-the-mill "not right."

Oh well. It's who I am.

Jason once asked me if I had the choice, would give up all of my internal torment if it meant I would lose the ability to create? And I wouldn't. I would give up almost anything else ( not loved ones.) But creating is as intertwined as the messed up part of me. So, you take the bad with the good.

Today a friend came over who became a new mother four weeks ago, and then two weeks later suddenly lost her mother. We were talking about how everyone has their own difficulties to deal with in life. I was not expecting this, but at one point, I felt a strange sense of awe when I looked at her. Kind of like being with someone who has just been placed in the fire. She looked beautiful to me, otherworldly beautiful... the two polar extremes of the human experience colliding right there inside her heart. And there she was, sitting at my kitchen counter, talking to me...but at the same time I could almost see her spirit on a different plane, having been hand selected to go on a very difficult journey, being given the sustenance that she would need for the days ahead.

I was so aware of the poignancy of these days of her life. A defining season, a season to which she will refer when she is explaining, years down the road, about how she became who she is. I wanted to be able to save her from the grief she will feel. But will she be given custom-made treasure during this time, inexplicable gifts that will be imparted and woven into her character, that will make this journey of grief into something she would not have chosen for herself but neither would she undo, once it is completed?

I think about her. I think about her beautiful baby girl. I think about myself as a child, and about the moment in time when we realize our parents existed before they were our parents, and that they have a life story of which we are only a part. I think about my own children and about how there is so very, very much they do not know about me, and may never know until years and years and years have gone by, and perhaps they have their own children, and stumble upon my old journals.

There is so much, so very much to learn, if you really want to understand a person. . .to understand why they are who they are. . .and the way they have dealt with the good in their life and the bad in their life. . . and all of these things make me aware that I am very sleepy. And I must now attempt to disengage from the swirling, the swirlingtwistingoverandoverandoverwrappingmeupintoomanythoughts. . .stop, please. . . stop . . .

Good-night to all, and to all a good-night.