(no subject)

PISCES (Feb. 19-March 20): Patches of yellow forsythias and blue gentian flowers have sprouted high in the Austrian Alps this winter, appearing where snow usually dominates the landscape. I predict that you're about to experience a metaphorically similar phenomenon, Pisces. There'll be an unprecedented blossoming in a situation that has previously been unable to support growth. I wouldn't be surprised if some of your frozen assets began to thaw as well. 

I'm pretty sure this is talking about Mom finally having her job, and me finally having money for art supplies and books once more, and  finally (finally!) being able to plan a trip to visit Aurey.  I don't care how cold it is up there, it's going to feel like Spring to me.

Ponderance

I sometime feel the desire to put something deep and thoughtful on this thing--generally after a long string of memes and reports of day-to-day doings.  I begin to feel like my contributions should be more like... well, contributions.  I feel like I should be writing poetry, putting thoughts out there that inspire and make people think.  And you know what I generally wind up doing?  Finding someone else's thoughts to put up here. Gibran, or Hakim Bey or one of the innumerable Dead Poets.  I suppose I wonder if there are any original thoughts left.  I wonder if there's anything that I can say that hasn't been said so much more eloquently by greater minds than mine.  Perhaps sometimes only more confident ones.  I remember this used to comfort me when I was younger, make me feel that I was less alone.  As a person, it still does.  But as a writer it's troubling.  Perhaps I've forgotten that the point of putting words out there is to connect, even if it's in ways and with people the writer is never aware of.   Maybe.

I remember, when I used to write, these sorts of thoughts and fears never occurred to me.  I only knew that I was compelled. I almost felt like a conduit of something outside myself.  Inspiration.  I miss it.  I don't know why the wellspring seems to be blocked unless I'm collaborating or working with other people's ideas as in RP/Fanfic.  I don't know why I can't seem to pull my own weight with this any more.  There's a post-apocalyptic fantasy in my head, but the words won't come.  They won't flow.  Where has my poetry gone? 

Well, I'm tortured now, thinking about all this.  That's more writerly. :-|