Tuesday, July 07, 2009

A few days ago, my mom asked if I've been writing.

I said no.

Then, "I guess I could write about being pregnant, but..."

And trailed off midsentence, which I do a lot of these days.

I've always felt secretly smug about my ability to summon extradimensional communicative powers when needed. But am finding that, with the cruel humor of a misunderstood, disrespected goddess, pregnancy amps my awareness of & confidence in this, while also sapping me of it.

That's why you don't hear the choir you really should, from my mouth.

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About Me

I came to Minneapolis from southern California this May to help my 88-year-old mother care for my 86-year-old father. He fell last November, and then declined cognitively for a month as his bones healed at a rehab facility under quarantine. He hasn't undeclined. Before retiring in the 1990s, he was a theater critic, & still seems to have some of his self-confidence and wit alongside vascular dementia, Parkinsonisms, incontinence and real trouble walking. Given his otherwise-ok health, he might still have some tolerable years ahead, though with new parameters. My mom's a novelist. She seems made of iron.