The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Well, I've become all but invisible here. When I signed up for 3 courses, it seemed a good idea to keep busy. I'm not sorry I did it; I have written some interesting things, drawn some interesting models, and learned some interesting grammatical idiocincrasies of italian.

And the rest of it? I'm no closer to believing I am a writer, or an artist. Why is this so hard? I do things I think are pretty good, but somehow they don't count. What does it take to get over this and just DO. (Forget the Nike commercial; in real life there are loads of people out there, including ourselves, waiting to heckle us like Waldorf and Stettler when we fail.) Yes, I will keep doing it anyway. But why so erratic? I feel like a giant factory machine, responsible for three different jobs. Quick! Fill this bin! It's important! Hurry hurry hurry! Oh, now that one is nearly empty! Quick quick quick! Throw three kids into this, and I wind up jacking all trades, mastering none... I need a cheerleading section. How sad is that. *sigh*

So, here's a tidbit I wrote as an exercise for the class. Creepy creepy:

He dipped his hands into the lake. It was undisturbed and pure- this far north there was little pollution. And it was ice cold, which was good. Ice also had a purity about it. The lake was still obsidian smooth, this early. He made out a sliver of paleness further along the shore; a night heron, standing like a statue, unseen by it's prey. He understood the night herons. His fingers were stiff and red when he took them out of the lake. He fumbled with the oarlocks. As cold as the water was, the lake was clearly warmer than the air; the mist over it was suspended, unable to rise any further. There were depths to the lake never touched by ice or sun. Nearly bottomless. Bottomless enough.
He rowed the boat out. The bottom of the boat was full, with the fishing rod on top, between his feet. Perhaps he would even fish. He heard a splash and looked to see the heron, long bill in the air like a church spire, swallowing it's prey. Good for you. He pushed his brown hair out of his eyes and smiled at the heron before rowing on.

Anyway, just for the record, I'm back to being pissed. Really, really, angry. My kids are still angry. A week or so ago my youngest daughter asked if God killed the baby. What do you say? Then she asked (not kidding here, she really said this) "Is it your fault the baby died?" She's little. She really just wanted to know. She had no idea how much that question hurt. I just said "No, these things just happen sometimes." Well, I can hardly be surprised that she's not satisfied with this answer if I'm not.