Writing: A Love/Hate Relationship

It is difficult to admit, especially after all of the words and poems I have produced, but there are times writing isn't too much fun; like right now, for instance. It is almost 3AM, I am still recovering from my one day jaunt to the Cape so muscles are still stiff and sore, and I would like nothing better than to be in the middle of a REM cycle right now, but I am writing instead. It does not happen too often and is really quite a random occurrence, so I suppose we will all survive it, but it can be a too well disguised blessing when it does come down to this - sleep or write? Why can't it ever be eat or write? At least then losing weight might be a little simpler.

Since I mentioned my one day trip to Cape Cod I may as well tell you that it was for one of the events planned as a part of my high school class's thirtieth reunion - that's "30," by the way - and, while it was fun and I would do it again in a heartbeat, there is now a price to be paid in hours of recovery from having braved the wrath of the gods and traipsing around the Cape as if I was still a girl of only forty, or so. It has been many, many years since that I have walked down the main street of Chatham or visited my grandmother's grave. I would also have enjoyed the effort put into the walk on Main Street if the store I wanted to go to had taken the sole credit card I now carry with me but, all is still well.

It really struck me with a force I had never felt before just how different the Cape is from other parts of Massachusetts. It was as I was approaching the head of the Cape - I crested a hill and suddenly I was surrounded by sky. I could still see the pine trees but suddenly I was looking over the tops of them and there was limitless blue with little white clouds in it all around me. The far side of the hill, which I now consider the actual "beginning" of Cape Cod, was almost like sliding down a sand dune into another, more isolated world.

It was not until I was on the Cape Proper that I felt the suctioning of my thoughts and writing ideas, in fact not until I reached Eastham, but that is not unusual and I suspect is the result of all of the desperate wanna-be-a-writer types who have flocked there over the years. They are written-out and have created a sponge-like atmosphere that only delays a person in their writing rather than depriving them of their abilities to write, but the sense of loss was strong enough that I almost wanted to turn around and head home that very moment. If I had, though, I would not have more stories to tell later on about seeing friends after thirty years and talking to them for hours over good food and the relaxed camaraderie that is one of the true blessings of being almost fifty years old.

(untitled)
(- dedicated to Pam S. who has a sense of humor)

Hello again,
Is it really you?
We've changed so much
It's a different view.
But you look so good
Through my bifocaled eyes
I did not guess
It was not you
But someone else
Wearing a "you" disguise.

Ah, the blessings of the onset of potential senility! Now maybe I can get back to sleep.