with ice packs on my chest

I haven’t been able to journal from all this stress, because I hate it when my journal reads like my childhood diaries, with lists of “today I did this and then this and was told this and then finished that and ate this with so-and-so.” I’m desperate to write, because these are times when I need to be doing something creative to get me out of my head, which is filled with biopsies and ultrasounds and bloodwork. The moleskine in my purse is finally not filled with shopping lists and phone numbers but with quick letters to myself about things I need to think about when I have time to think. But it’s so hard to start your journal again when you’ve been out of it for more than a week. And I have no time. This is piano week. If you are not made of black and white keys and three pedals, I will not hang out with you until after Sunday’s master class. I should be practicing right now instead of writing here.

I’m also reluctant to go back to my paper journal because a) my tennis elbow is finally going away and I don’t want my hands to start cramping again just when they’ve stopped, and b) I’m starting to feel as if I can write anything I want to here. Part of that is because so few people read this, so I’m essentially just writing to myself on a computer instead of on paper. But I’m also trying to decide where this blog is headed, because I’m finding so many blogs and webmags and zines and things that I want to be involved in, and I’ve been reading so much and writing (at least in my head) and I’ve been inspired by so many things. Is it silly to want to be cutting off my real life in favor of an Internet one? Is it silly to plan to become an Internet personality? I dunno.


One thought on “with ice packs on my chest

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