get the juices flowing again. please.

So so so what? So all these writers over the past few days who are so so so young with such clear clear clear voices and me feeling worn down by computers and calculations and tasks and obligations. Where is the time for me? When will I make the stew I bought ingredients for on Sunday? The stir fry? The pasta. All these plans stocked in the crisper of my fridge, inevitably getting stale and soggy.

And my throat feels rough and my chest twitchy. Could it be that I'm... No! I refuse to admit or even articulate what could be happening inside me.

SO. Instead of this self pity, I'm-so-old-and-it's-too-late-for-me crap, I'm digging stuff up. And you are the lucky recipient. I've developed an image of you in my mind that is tolerant and even entertained by the abberation that is me. Maybe not every part of me, but it's early enough that most parts are still charming to you. So, indulge me, please. The next rabbit is on me.

I am excited by the notion of your broad beans. I am excited by the idea of bed. I'm thrilled -- however feminine that sounds -- by the concept of each person being a constant in his or her own life and the unfamiliarity of time passing, the rude shock (that is the reality) that we get OLDER that we AGE that we will one day DIE. [Gina said to me, "we don't think we will ever die. I mean, we know we will die. We know it. But we don't think it will ever actually happen. To us."] There are all things we know: Brocolli look like small trees. Fresh air is good for you. Dreams contain more wisdom than we're comfortable with, which is why we call them dreams.

Where am I going with all this? Gosh. I've revved myself up into a churning machine pumping out poetic platitudes. Best to stop before you change your mind about me. could you ? Would you? Perish the thought. Kill it dead.