gobi begone

Would you believe me if I said I've got too much to write about? If I said that I have been writing, cross my heart, pages and pages of mostly aborted paragraphs, stilted prose and weak imagery that feel to me like a desert I'll never cross? The words eddying around me like so much dry sand with no moisture to give them form and life? If I could only write with pithy brilliance, I'd be here more often. But my sentences just won't abbreviate themselves. My paragraphs prefer to breeeeath. And I just . . . can't.

What up, drama? Dude, I'm just tarred. I've been doing an hour and a half of yoga, five times a week in 100 degree plus temperatures, (sometimes getting up at 5:30 in the morning when only the military and the misbegotten have any call to be awake, let alone active) for the past seven weeks and while my body is coming along, my body of work suffers. There are just so many plates I can spin and still take Fred to the park for his daily romps. (For the record, the rest of you writing out there with kids in the background and fulltime jobs and chemical dependencies are studs. I can barely find time to bathe.) But the yoga challenge I've been doing is over after this week and I'm dosing myself with pedialyte and buckwheat pancakes, so I should be back in writing shape soon.

In the meantime, thanks for your continued visitation. The three of you who click on this site eighty-seven times a day are more important to me than you know.