stage fright                                                                                                   

I am unaccustomed to writing for an audience--real or imagined. I have had a small collection of amazing women who have haunted these pages for the last handful of months, a scattered cropping of lurkers and an easy arena of comfort from which to dwell. These humans have brought me immeasurable joy and sanity and have often set the other side of the scale in my altogether lopsided life. At many times along the short and narrow path of this space I've reevaluated, reassessed and redefined what the F I was trying to do here in the first place.  As a non-mom and a reluctant blogger usually I felt a bit like I was elbowing my way into something in which I did not fit. Reviewing the ways I've used this space myself over the last smattering of months I've often thought there is something distinctly schizophrenic about it, a sticky stack of polaroids capturing my best and worst angles.  I had no idea if I would keep writing once I left the broken up anguish of New York City. I had no idea what I would say any longer, now that I've left that dirty dirty hard hard fast sharp city behind. There much inside to process I'm certain, there is much of it still stuck inside; and yet my day to day life in a loud speaker is over and part of me has always wondered what will happen here, in this pixelated place, in the aftermath. A newer, awkward, skittering part of me hopes that those who have come here recently will not then, in turn, leave disappointed. 

And so, it is unnerving, reassuring, validating and terrifying to have you all here--real or imagined. Thank you, every one of you, immensely and unendingly, for your kind comments, for even coming here at all. I have been woefully remiss, stuck up in a dial up connection, a house full of boxes and a very nosey mother. 

However, there is a kind of quiet here that is weathered and well worn, a space that begs a laptop and a mug of coffee; a space every bit as important and necessary as my sinking ship in the city. I am not a writer. I do not have stories to tell, dialogue in place, characters inside of me. All I can do it witness and observe, record and tabulate. New York was easy on the keyboard, hard on the heart. I wonder now, now that I am gone, what will become of this space? What will happen here now that I can finally and again breathe easily?