An Indulgent (star-crossed) Thanks.

Back at home, it's Thanksgiving.  Here, it's just Friday.  I could stand smug-- been there, done that, like six days ago-- but I'd rather have more pie.  It would also be nice to hug my mother.  She's being held hostage by siblings, however, who have turkey on their table and limited time, I guess, to turn on the Skype machine.  I moan to the drone of my dishwasher.  It holds the plastic tubs that held leftovers until today.

Lately, I've been spinning in the silly pirouette of a seven-year old's unrequitable lust for the remotest likelihood.  Like I want a pony, but that's not it, exactly.  I've never liked horses and smaller versions, oddly, provoke a greater aversion.  It's the greater potential of the miniatures to climb on my lap and expect me to like them that makes me shudder.  That, and the impression I've always had that smaller versions are always malformed.  See, supra, several posts about my childlessness.

Back to the clumsy dance: god damn it all if I didn't want something too much which is a surefire way to disappoint yourself and spoil all the perfectly slow moments transpiring between hoping and dashing the hope.  If time could remain as slow as I settle my soul with other candied morsels of future possibility, then I'd feel like the wanting was at least fruitful.  I'll keep you posted.

The thing I wanted?  I'm not saying.  It's not really so sad.  There's tons to do and now a few more moments in which to do it.  Slower moments, fingers crossed.  Although, fingers crossed didn't work so well for me previously.  So fuck it.  Fingers wide apart and busy.  I'm going to see if I can't write a 50,000-word novel in December as a follow-up to my first.  Then, I can self-publish both and feel productive.  I got the idea from the National Novel Writing Month, affectionately known-- maybe?-- as nanowrimo.  Of course, it was supposed to be done in November, but with my fingers tangled up on the doused fuse of my anxious pipe-dream, I delayed.  Now, unwound, they're ready.  And I'm ready.  Third revise on the first book tells me that I may as well march on.

And so, as I resign myself to the notion that all that lost hope ain't found somewhere in a cluttered box-- St. Anthony, where are you-- I cruise along.  Maybe you saw that finger flip or maybe I was stretching.  It's all the same.  Thanks for freeing me up.  Really.