Confession Tuesday (deb)

I may have to quit confessing just because it makes it seem like life is moving so fast. Of course, that's one of the reasons I didn't have kids. I thought kids sped the world up. It's not. It's perception. Failing, or improving, perception. Take your pick.

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I like confessing. Even when I don't really. I have to keep up with it. (I am somewhat compulsive, though not obsessively so.)

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I like how some bloggers avatars are pictures of them as little kids. I thought about finding my favorite of me: a little blond thing, big dopey smile, tilted plastic glasses over blue eyes, dressed in white with a lace mantilla on my head, askew (of course), surrounded by all these gorgeous brown-skinned, dark-eyed kids looking somber and spiritual. I looked like the devil grinning. Thank god I didn't have to go to Catholic school (it was too far away for my mom to drive me every day.)

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I just cannot capitalize "god". It's my little rebellion. (Sorry to those that dig him/her. I do respect your beliefs.)

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The firecrackers have gone off twice tonight. I hate them. A lot.

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I haven't told you the worst: my best pal in Portland's mother died late last week. She was poorly, but it still is a shock. This friend and another try to lunch once a week (doesn't always work) and lately, for the last few years, one topic is always how our mothers are doing. They have all had serious health issues. And, while we never said it aloud, we all knew one day some one's mom would be gone. It's a horrid version of "And Then There Were None."

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I'm obsessing on Twitter and Facebook.

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Tonight I sent in my bio and electronic copy for my recently accepted poem, "First Fear and a Death". It will be in a real live print journal: VoiceCatcher 2008. ("An Anthology of Portland Women's Writing.") Woot! The editors said they really liked it. A lot. Cool, eh?

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I also wrote a short article for RWP about Facebook, one that Dana will work over, look over. I am now a fan. It is so much fun. It is so sophomoric, but I was thrilled, thrilled, when Mark Doty wrote me back and accepted my "friendship"...and Carolyn Forche...and Dorianne Laux accepted, too. But Mark Doty wrote me. Me. (I am a huge fan. Huge.) I feel like a kid stalking Hollywood celebrities. It is so dumb. And so fun.

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It is hard to see all this text before and after the note about my friend's mom. I feel so shallow in the face of death and loss.

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Go check out January's sidebar for more confessional-type bloggers. (It may take me a while to get to everyone this week. I have a writing group coming over Wednesday and I need to clean the house and read their work tomorrow night!)