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Dear Kim.,

It is Sunday afternoon here. Around 12:30.

I woke up early, as seems increasingly to be my habit. Read and wrote a bit and ate a wonderful whole grain pancake with an orange I had gotten at the Farmers Market.

Then, in acknowledgment of my fatigue—and acknowledgment is the operative word here—I went back to sleep to try to get more rest. I have definitely been sleep deprived these past few weeks and the sleep that I have had, has been troubled and restless.

Now I am going to head out and take a walk and maybe see a dance concert in the park.

I had said I would give myself the gift of a day of silence. Certainly with no spoken aloud words. To rest my mind and mouth as well as heart and to come back to the writing more refreshed.

(Kim: There was a guy on NPR years ago who didn't talk one day a week...not a peep. He would only listen to the world.

Then he met a woman and the only day they could date was his silence day...so they didn't talk. But they got married.

Now they have a kid and they are planning to continue the silent day...when the kid can understand that.)

I thought about doing that Saturday but then Saturday seemed impossible. My father actually called to see how I am and he never calls. And he actually talked about his feelings, as did my mother. So I wasn't about to move away from those rare openings.

Then, I woke up this morning, itching to finish a draft of some song lyrics. I have a phone conference with composer Neal Richardson tomorrow (Monday) afternoon.

So I have already screwed up the no words part for the day.

I am going to try very hard not to talk with anyone today, randomly or deliberately. Although that, too, will be hard, since I want to check in with my mother and my sister.

Well, maybe I will make them the exceptions. Sure, why not. These are my rules and i can make them up.

Silence in general, is easy for me. I find it deeply nourishing.

I am sorry that my talk of my mother brings up feeling of loss for yours. Can you please say some more about that?

(Kim: When ever you say "can you say more..." I think you are being my therapist.

But I will. Parents are sticky. You are attached to them and you love them, and yet you want to remove yourself from them (at least, I do). I'm thinking of something where you try to pull it away and then you are more stuck. My mom is especially hard to escape because she was so forceful and all-knowing.

Don't worry about writing about your mother. What is painful is how hard it is to escape from her, even with her being dead for a 6 years.

I had a good dream about my dad the other night. I was going with him to visit one of his best friends. I thought his friend would like to see my dad since he was dead. Sometimes dreams don't make a lot of sense.

I'm a little confused still because they gave me Demerol for a medical procedure and got very confused. Parts of yesterday were stolen from my memory. How did I get dressed? How did I move from point A to point B. What did the doctor say? Linda says I spoke in full sentences with large words and made complete sense . . . and I can't remember anything.)

I want my talk to and with you to be productive. I don't want it to be unnecessarily painful. Would you rather that I not write about her?

The thing is, the situation with my mother—and everything that surrounds it—seems be the most important event in life right now. That and my growing daily awareness of my own mortality and my beloved sister's.

(Kim: I think the real deal for me is my own mortality. Seeing how little grief is shed for the dead by their coworkers is kind of an eye opener. And trying to figure out what I want to be doing 4 months from now.)

And my deep, deep need to write more.

Awful as this may sound, relational issues with Pseudonym are scarcely even on my radar except to resurface every once in a while. Then I go, "Oh, right. I have a lover. Who I have not seen in two weeks. To whom I do not seem to want to turn or share. With whom I am not getting along. And with whom I need to officially end our partnership as it currently exists. Right."

Let me know what you want.

(Kim: That really is a beautiful request. Other than health and happiness for my family, it is to be a full-time artist.)

I am concerned about your check up. Please let me know how it and you go.

(Kim: I realize that I'm writing this in the future . . . so I can say that it went well.)

Later,

Joan

Sunday, Jan 29, 2006

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