Envy

Writing down my thoughts is hard. Well, it isn't all of the time. Sometimes what I am thinking and what I want to type come together perfectly. Other times the writing process makes me feel like I'm the Nowhere Man floating in his swirly cartoon world.

I guess that is a good reflection of how my speaking thoughts are, too. I usually tell the end of a story first, get lost, realize the story is rubbish, remember that the middle is good and then wandering off down some other path. The end of the story (which I would have started with) was that I took a nap. The middle is about a butterfly garden and birthday bellinis. The side story involves paying bills with a goat.

I don't know how many times I have started to relate something that I read about or saw on the news, and then had to stop talking because I had forgotten the critical point. Was it always to run with scissors or always to run with the bulls? I just don't know.

It's easy to say that you remember the important things, but what is the excuse when you forget those, too? As kid I truly believed that I could still remember everything that had happened to me on everyday since I starting keeping memories. I loved that knowledge. Somewhere in Junior High I stopped wanting to remember. There were too many memories that were too painful or confusing. Mostly confusing. I couldn't understand why there was someone living in my home that would not speak to me, why my family loved each other so much but still seemed so pitted against each other. I guess those two things made navigating a conversation a little tricky. One person who won't speak and then several others who are passionate speakers. But that was then.

Now I live with someone who adores me and a cat and dog who hang on my every word. I'm mostly just embarrassed how I acted with my family. Very easy for me to believe that I encouraged strife. I also know that I was a kid who was just wanting to know where her place was in her family. And there's forgiveness in that.

I think I've veered off again. Time to bring up the goat?

One of my hopes of writing is that it will help me to organize my casual thinking thoughts. Maybe I won't feel so random. But maybe random speak is something that is just me. I do envy my grandmother a little bit. She's been keeping a daily journal since... this would be where I am missing critical information. I cannot think of a time when she did not keep a journal. She writes a little in the morning and then more in the evening. Everyday. In ink. I feel like I need the luxury of both Spell Check and Cut and Paste.

I guess hoping for eloquence in my everyday life might be expecting too much from a blog. But then again, why not hope for too much? Life is grand and the impossible should be hoped for. Maybe I'll start by remembering to hit the Save button.