I was listening to Neil Young discuss the creative process with Charlie Rose last week. I felt a little bit better about the emotional space I've been dealing with. He nailed a few points that simplify, clarify that balance between creating and family isn't. It's life. And how each of us deals with the muse is an individual journey. There are times where... GMA. I am so happy for Whitney Houston. I have been writing little as of late and this morning the muse woke me like a laughing toddler jumping between the furniture. The illustrator & writer @ work. (ADD...) Paula Abdul. Dolley Parton. Liza Minelli. Annie Lennox. Cyndi Lauper. Nathan Lane. All return to mind. So does an old script. Oh! My... a song?

I found WH Auden's poem September 1 1939 in a google search. One of the few things this phone can do. After a pointed internal discussion he closes wisely... 'May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.' The clasp and all the shiny globes to one pearl necklace were found in his words. Search out the entire work. A wonderous poet.

While attempting to edit a couple of bloggish paragraphs at 3am I accidentally erased what I'd written. The cricket that recently moved into our space, due to construction out back, chirped away like she was laughing. Feeling sorry for myself is a useless waste of energy. And the blog I lost was all about my lack of energy. I opened with dirty dishes in the sink. Then I moved on to the dirty laundry. This translated into energy. Or lack of. Creative artsy people need to be plugged in as much as the not so artsy. The sources that replenish the soulself, bodyself and creative environment varey. Everything becomes a transfer of energy. If I am a conduit where is my source? And what happens when...

Can you dig into a hook like Janis lived with pain...smoothing love's rough edges with an emotional refrain. When broken hearts and scattered dreams shift gears that grate an' grind till most of those we say we love don't know...don't know what to do. Oh yeah-oh yeah. She was talkin' about you. Don't take the lonely mountain road when urbanomic manias crowd the sidewalk. Don't wait for healthy politicians to feed the markets you won't buy...and don't put all your dreams in writing...unless it's in the sky. Repeat 2x.

I imagined all the Kennedy men, now again as boys, laughing as the clouds of time pull back like parting waves. Each face joyously set to the present task! Tacking, homeward bound, thier sail a starry sky. The Lighthouse flickers in the distance, warmly inviting the weary and the magestic.

Writing from a cheap cell phone doesn't cut it. But I'll make due. My mom is finally home and resting comfortably in her own bed. The dance we have shared has changed tempo once again. I must lead...and then let go. Inevitable movements, small steps toward tomorrow, leaning on each other. Am I her support or is she mine?

Wow! I went back to bed for an extra snooze when I heard the storm windows rattle. The incoming onslaught sang to me like the ocean does to a sleepless sailor without a ship. I didn't know Loo-ville was under water till watching the weather channel this afternoon immediately followed by the Shamwow commercial.