It has been something like eight years since I posted anything new on this blog. During that time a few people have pointed out that it might be nice if I could rouse myself and have another go at it. Not a lot of people. Some. Not that I haven’t written anything in the last eight years. I have. I just couldn’t warm up to my own words, you know? For example:
August 15, 2016
Lately, I’ve started talking to myself in a new voice. I have no idea why this is happening now. In the past, I’ve only ever conversed with myself in my normal, Judy voice. Of course, all humans talk to themselves. At home, in the car – you can carry on a spirited debate almost anywhere. With yourself. So it doesn’t much bother me when I find myself talking out loud to no one in particular. What’s unsettling is this new, truly pathetic voice, sort of a cross between Olive Oyl and Peewee Herman.
Well. You can see where that was headed. Nowhere anyone not lobotomized would want to go.
Nevertheless, I’ve had an urge to write again recently, maybe put down some penetrating observations for the edification of future generations. We’ll see where it goes.
Meanwhile, you ask, what has happened to the grandkids, the inspiration for all that early scribbling. Much. Much has happened. In a heartbeat it seems I have been forced to reconstruct my philosophy of grandma-ness – not by choice, needless to say, but because of the stubborn refusal of children to stick in one place, take a break from endless unfolding, and just let people adjust, is that too much to ask? I can only hope they do something worth writing about.
This is us now. I think everyone looks pretty happy. Although I appear to be shriveling somewhat. And why is Cosette wearing only one shoe? Typical.