no promises

I'm aware of the cost of absences like this. I have been writing other things, not fiction, and I miss bluesky. When I am not writing creatively, I am ruined.

Pearl died. Nobody still living liked her very much, and I'd have to agree that she wasn't easy to like, but I liked her and she liked me. It was my desk that she liked. She liked knowing the boss. She was an elitist. A true snob with her millions intact to the bitter end.

Many of my people are dying again right now. The cycle is repeating, as cycles will, and those little souls who were wandering and kicking the cat and tearing the plants from their pots have begun to call out the names of their brothers and sisters gone on before them, calling for mama because push-come-to-shove that's who we want even if we're ninety. They're trying to get home to papa because he'll worry. This is dying -- going home at last.

There is one who is trying to pass, and her son doesn't want her to go just yet. She wants to die, says as much every morning when the sun finds its way to her reluctantly opened eyes. "Leave me be." And the son wants more anti-depressants and different anti-depressants to "perk her up." And I tell him, "Ain't no cure for ninety, pal." Ain't no medicine gonna get in front of the will to live once that place in line is taken. Nope. Not even with a strong faith in a misunderstood god. But what do I know?

I've cancelled my harp lessons. I love my harp, but I will not use it to make a living any time soon, and do need to move obligation to a far side in this short life. Obligation, too, is ruinous to me.

Ah, there. It is good to write.