finding a way

after years of writing almost nothing for myself, the act of creation seems almost alien to me.  i couldn't find a place to do it.  i couldn't find things to write about.  i couldn't get comfortable. 

so i started posting old work.  no fiction yet, just poetry.  somehow it seems safer.  i guess because its shorter, there is less to find fault with in it.

tonight, almost accidently, i found a place to do it.  i love the two wing chairs in our living room, but i so rarely sit in them.  i even put a floor lamp behind one as a reading lamp, but i still didn't really use them.  they are used more by guests and the cats than by me.  this weekend, we acquired a new end table.  lacking a better location without doing some rearranging, eric put it by the wing chairs like a tall coffee table for them.  this evening, moko and i sat in them with our tea and shared flan on the table.  i turned on my floor lamp, snuggled into my wing chair, and enjoyed NCIS.  moko left, eric settled into reading a thousand sons on the couch with a blanket and the cats, and i took my laptop to the new table.  (after clearing away the tea and flan, of course.) 

its perfect.  the table is a perfect height.  the light is a perfect glow.  the view of the rest of the house makes me feel more at home in my own home, which i didn't know to be possible.  i'm finally using my beloved wing chairs.  its almost 11, and i'm still up writing in my blog.  i think i may have undone the cork, in a way.  i claim this table in the name of my writing.  this is my space.  next to a window, right beside the big red buddha.  i can see the front door, up the stairs, the dining room, eric and the cats on the couch, and there's room for a cup of tea. 

perfect.  well, almost.

hoos' painting is crooked again.