A quick compress of the last few weeks. Work continues unabated. Mara came down sick with IC, and then asthma. While buying medicine for Mara’s asthma, I was assaulted in a parking lot and broke my nose. I had nasal reconstructive surgery. Mara’s asthma continued unabated. We went to Quirky and my stomach and I had disagreements about whether or not green chili is proper medication for someone experiencing bad bouts of vicodin withdrawal. I entered graduate school to study cognitive psychology.

In between all, the wedding plans run rampant.

I’ve been asked why I don’t write more often. Quite frankly, I’m not sure I have the ability to write well anymore. The way I used to write, with words coming out that made beautiful sense, feels dried up. I write corporate now and I don’t play with my words like I did. I’m noticing that my particular style in which different meanings could stretch and frolic come harder to me. While trying to write my psychology papers, I sit and ponder the proper way of writing a particular sentence. A few minutes ago, I spent a bit of time wondering what the word subject meant and whether I could write it in a non-discriminatory, non-gender based meaning. Singularities have become as rare as they are in physics. My world is plural; literally and figuratively.

I’ve entertained notions of killing this blog. Who I was when I started it two years ago in some bleak midwestern weather is definitely not who I am now. I have a feeling that if I met myself two years ago; I’d send him to the bottle.

I won’t delete the blog. I need to write. I feel it bottled up in me and it’s stagnating. Mother’s milk dries if kept in the breast too long. I’m drying up and I know it.