This week's blogger I found through a blog roll . I thought she was a mommy blogger, and she professes that it is a mommy blog . But I think it's way more than your typical mommy blog. Anyone can read this . There is a little bit that anyone can relate to , and alot that others can relate to .
This blog is raw and sometimes painful to read. At other times I want to stand up at my desk and cheer at the entry's end. It's not a tale of perfect days that start with breakfast in bed and it's not a sequence of hilarity .
It's real .
So here she is , I Obsess . She can be found over at i-obsess.typepad.com Because you know LJ couldn't give me a link maker that works.
The entry that got me hooked :
Have been barely capable of lifting my ass out of bed in recent days, weeks, months; my writing has not just suffered, not merely lapsed; I didn't only privatize my blog (only, god, privatize?, jesus - sounds like I have hired an attorney to pen this piece), I quit participating with my insides.
Here, there, and everywhere.
The piles around the house that accumulate on a regular basis grow and grow; the until-recent cold outside has prevented planting a garden, and so I plant a garden of papers and envelopes and moldy catalogs that advertise things I do not require and will never acquire, stacks of yellowing receipts and recipes and requiems, aging piles of disks and cards and broken pieces of toys possibly mended but probably destined for a garbage bin at some distant date; lightbulbs gone bad, written directives to self to create order amidst the stacks lost, lost terrifically, lost desperately, lost quietly and mute and moot.
There is nothing and no one that brings my mind up to the point that I can feel energized to stop being sad. Not a constant drone of sad, but a regular, soft, hidden beat, a hidden, cloaked pulse of sad that lurks beyond the windows, just beyond, and not further. Hands pressed gently against the glass, indenting the surface, leaving pale almost-prints.
The list of to-dos is long, long.
The people wait. They grow tired of waiting and they move on, away, beyond my outstretched fingers that I mask in the pocket of my pilled, clumsy sweatshirt.
I have love here, and I cannot sense, cannot scent, am indirectly sent, misspent; pent-up regret belies the bent of exchanges unmade, beds laid in and arms mislaid or lain away or flown not high, rather, low, low.
And the readers say, ugh. This, this is more of what I cannot bear, your sadness, your fingers, your pale prints, and they abstain and there is no blame to shoulder, no shoulder to blame, and the words spiral across the page like bad dna, broken and lost to flame and bitter and bracken and sour.
There are chills here in this newly summer'd moment, there are quiet spells and deep danks and thankless hours of bruised ideas, ideals, things set aside, things to lay to rest in the unmade beds of the mind.
This is no time to fight. This is time to cradle the stacks, to sidle beneath their disheveled bellies and close over the gaps with hands and fingers full of threads disowned.
This is no time to fight.
The above entry can be found at http://i-obsess.typepad.com/i_obsess/200
The entry it inspired should be posted late tomorrow, early Sunday .