absence makes the heart jane fonda

It always falls flat on its face and I feel like a failure again. My lion's roar reduced to the squeak of a mouse.

I'm talking about tinkering on a Sunday afternoon with instruments. Tunes and symphonies in my heart that I am completely incapable of producing on the black and white keys in front of me, or the thick metallic strings of the bass.

I feel the pang of wanting a collaborator.

It's similar to the post-essay-hand-in feeling. I throw all I can into the mix, I get to those final days and treat it like a precious stone, polish it to it's highest sheen. But polish doesn't mean much on something with visible fault lines. I always want a little more time, time to basically have distance from what I've written, time where we're apart, my essay and I, then I can go back and do the additions and subtractions. But that's my fault for not starting sooner I suppose. I always arrive at the end of the process and I'm amazed at the dance I have made the black and white space do, the formation of the letters, the feelings I'm trying to pinpoint like a clumsy cupid. Amazed and pained. Most times it's only ever nearly enough.

I am on such overflow. My perceptions and feelings changing like river currents, about my family, music, my body, what I'm doing with this year. It's okay.

I'm currently powering through Jeanette Winterson's The Passion. It's a great novel, I'm really enjoying it. The way she expresses how it feels to be in love is amazing. Among other things! The state of my heart attracts most to that though.

Anyway, the instruments are put away and the reading I need to do for my final essay calls.