A few days of no writing and I am feeling damn prolific. And after a day in the city, bursting. The two-minute-shower that kept me from my notebook was too long. I think I lost about twenty dozen thoughts to the steam and green walls.
I am coming home without conclusions but with hundreds of questions and quotations. But today is Lydia's brithday party--yes two months late. She was waiting for one of her friends to get goats, but by the time they got the goats she decided she wanted to have a western party instead of a farm party. So now the western party is two months late. So the whole house smells like chocolate cake and there are helium ballooms and plastic spoons and soda (which we never buy) in the fridge and someone is mixing frosting and the boys are vaccuming and pushing back the couches.
We're always pushing back the couches. Sarah told me a few days ago that she always wonders what our living room will look like the next time she comes over. It changes daily, according to our needs.
So I think I am going to go out into the woods with my notebook, like I used to when I was little, when I read a lot of L. M. Montgomery and probabally bordered on pantheism and spent as much time as I could by the river singing under bridges or climbing trees or engaging in monologes and writing stories about girls named Adele and their secret hideaways and tame beasts.
Oh and there was the hemlock grove.