I feel kind of worn out from being naked and introspective. Dredging up sex memories and remembering my mom and creating art for public show for the first time since the baby I feel very, very much like an exposed nerve ending.
I also feel like my little indulgent world of self here is feeling like a truer more solid expression. I care more about this blog than any other project, connected so much as it is to my collection of spiral-bound notebooks and pretty gift journals that have stopped completely at this point. The idea of readers is overwhelming and terrifying and incredibly, amazingly beautiful. The network and collaboration of writing and linking and thought is extraordinary. Writing for only me in my book has vanished- in there I am now writing to Molly. I’m surprised to find that I don’t feel a loss about my books. I need to return to them, but they will be something entirely different now. Artist’s books… or god I will write a novel or something.
My mind is a picture of Pandora’s box and I can’t sleep yet.
This time 32 years ago was she in labor yet?
How long was her labor?
Why didn’t I ever ask to hear my own birth story?