With

I think 'with' is my favorite word. It's the least lonely word on earth. Like I take my coffee with milk and sugar. Like she is coming with. Like I am with you; we are with each other. You cannot reduce or take me from you or drink my coffee burnt and black unless we're with-out. Out is the swinging door with. Out takes swigs, makes tire tracks behind, hauls memories with. We are all without on every bike we ride.

I joined the gym today; did a step class and a yoga class. It was my first yoga class ever. I'm becoming a sixty year old woman, slowly but surely (aren't we all?). I got to the place in my book--we all know this place--where it's no longer something you read before bed, or something you pick up when you're bored, but something you HAVE to read or you'll go mad. Something that haunts you and you feel unsettled with something in your life and you try to remember what it is, and it's just the damn book with its chaos and wanting. It's when 200 pages isn't enough to resolve it all. It's when you love the characters more than they love each other. And my characters' world right now is so small I swear I could crawl inside it. My world feels just as small. Being home is a blessing. I only make small dents in the world.

I have a sign by my computer I made that says "Write Everyday." I wonder if this counts as that kind of creative writing that I meant, or if this is just a trifle, a drop in the proverbial pond (or pool?) of obsolete inanities of life. But, it's my life and I guess that's exactly it. What I make it; what it is. Me with me.