December 27th, the second day of limbo week

Welcome to Limbo! What to do, what to do seems to be my mantra. Last night I wrote a long overdue review in my sleep. Got up early this morning and actually wrote it and sent it off to the journal- in -waiting. The editor has been more than patient with me. I hope this review will met his approval. We'll see. The poetry collection is Just Beautiful by Tim Suermondt (NYQ Books, 2010) $14.95. It's an exceptional, witty collection, and I had a lot of fun figuring it out. If you're snooping around for a new read, this is one to pick up.

I've been writing every day, mostly prose poems. It takes me so long to complete a poem. The initial draft writes itself, then the fussing begins. My process reminds me of Topiary-- living text sculpture-- perhaps a garden, unlike any gardens I've known. The people who populate these
poems intrigue me. Every morning I look forward to spending time with them.

So now I have a fistful of poems. Will see if I can write two fistfuls by New Year's Day.

Have been catching up on my blogville reading. You would be surprised how long I've been away. Stunned by some of the posts. My heart aches. I wonder why we seek the approval of those who won't give us approval? What about all the people who do give us ascent? Why doesn't this count? All the bloggers who left messages were so comforting. The virtual hug.
Strangely, this need for a hug started earlier in the day. I was in the parking lot of Tops and I overheard a man talking to his sister, and he said, "I can let this go, but it will always come back to this . . ." I thought, that's so true. Poor guy, he was exasperated. And I get it, because I've been there a hundred times before, without much resolve. I'm still trying to figure out the sticky situation, which has everything to do with my family, not friends; and ironically I think the bloggers were actually talking about acquaintances. You think you know people through their blogs, but do you really?

Last Spring, I had to give up some blogs because the writers were so absorbed in the worlds of their own making. It frightened me because I couldn't tell if it was really them or personae talking. I think this venue is a remarkable mask, don't you?

O gentle readers, if any of you are actually out there, do you think this is so?