I think my quill is still.

My writing is dead.

Good thing I believe in reanimation and reincarnation.

I bought a package of 20 of my favorite bold tipped pens to entice me and still nothing.

I sharpened a dozen eastern cedar incense pencils, and I have yet to dull their perfect points.

Even my 2 1/2 cups of ethiopian yirgacheffe is uninspiring this morning.

Walked 18 miles last week, have walked 6 this week thus far.

Buffy, my dear friend from college was supposed to have arrived last night. Her grandma is having surgery at Herman hospital. I can't wait to see her, and catch up on all the lusciousness that is buffy summers. (yes this is a real person, and not the slayer.)

My living room floor is a mosaic of soiled clothes, papers that have served their purpose and been ripped so as not to get them confused with final drafts. A video tape, a card from the jacket of an x files tape. a bottle cap, a nylabone chew toy, a cushion from my couch, an artbin box, a generic carny ticket, a print out of 400 years of family history, the only evidence I have of last years cumpulsion to find the roots of my self, pitifully it is only the TIP of an iceburg that is still out there to be REdiscovered when i have a couple hundred hours to spend on it again, a free aol cd, a empty water bottle, and empty plastic grocery sacks, make that several, a pile of unread newspapers, a news letter, 2 plates, a turgouise vintage pyrex bowl, turned bottoms up on the carpet various and scattered bits of change. A compacted mass of debree in the foot covey of my grandmother's petite ladies desk that I use for my computer. (She is NOT petite, nor am I. However we both share a cumpulsion to be so, her methods included the wackiest of the wacky, mine tend to be more-- sensible.) a carelessly deposited gap bag that is my briefcase leaning against the couch, a couple of tracked in leaves, a waddded paper towell here and again, my laniard and teacher's i.d., an assortment of socks, most with some holes in them, the tags from a shirt somone gave to me.

even my descriptions are mundane, matter of fact, and dead. no flash of gorgeous words.

My social life on the other hand, is dazzling, and my walks, they leave me with out the aches and pains i've ignored for so long, and I havn't had a moment to have the void in my chest well up to try to consume me, and really, maybe those roots are getting thrust deep into this boyou gumbo soil of Houston.