REARRANGEMENTS

I got to thinking yesterday about re-arranging this blog. I'd been surfing for a while and stumbled on some really well organized blogs over on typepad. I must say while I do like the layout over there I have neither the time nor the energy to go through all of this set-up again. I mean, to me, this "self learning HTML" is major, major waste of novel writing time. The learning curve is not a curve, let's just put it that way. At least not for me.

Anyway, one of the interesting blogs I ran across was broken down into general life issues and then novel issues and then poetry issues and then the whole business of publishing and I thought, Now gee, that's a good idea. Perhaps I should take this blog down and split it in two. Have one page for just life issues and another separate page for writing issues.

Hmmmm. Now we're cooking with gas, I thought.

But as I was driving down the road (you know, that time when all good and worthy thought comes rushing into the brain) I realized that for me, the two are not seperable. One does not and cannot exist without the other. My writing is a natural extension of my life, the things I see and hear and taste and experience. Free form blogging here, whether about love lost or abuse or some political issue gives me the space I need for my creative work and more often than not, is the launching pad for many of my poems and short stories. I realized that life---my life at least---is not compartmentalized. One thing seems to always flow into the next. I've stopped yearning for that "room of my own," realizing that my children's natural invasion into my life is what sensitizes me to write in the first place. Who gave a damn about sunsets when they were 19? I certainly didn't. Sure they were nice....nice.....such a passive, non-descript word.....but I didn't care to search for the word azure or vermillion. Trees were just trees back then but now they are.... Mommy, but what KIND of tree is that?....well, not just trees but Oaks and Firs and Maples and Spruce. The sky is no longer just blue but the color of washed denim and droopy plants are not just droopy anymore rather yellowed vines that hang like tired, weary arms. The wind does not just blow but it roars and charges like an angry beast. So you see, as I am today, replete with so many different roles, I do not see my life as a set of files rather a pile of papers scattered on the desk, all relating and very necessary to one very important story.

I guess I'll be leaving the blog as it is.
Blog. Blah-g. Someone needs to come up with a new name.

Be good,

ANGEL

P.S.--If you missed today's Diane Rehm Showwith Harry Belafonte, you missed a damn good interview. Order the tape.