Writers block is weird. Tonight I was outside in a park with a jam band playing, and a gazillion people all worthy of writing about sitting around me, and literally hundreds of children there – running, yelling, taking over the land. I just sat there, observing it all, unable to speak.

I guess that we all have these ups and downs when it comes to communication. Times when we feel like talking, times when we absolutely cannot talk. Times when we should NOT talk. I guess I should be happy that I have, well, times.

It is kind of crazy to be around so many children all at once. I think, tonight, they may have snapped me out of my lethargy. Animated faces, contorted bodies, little flashes of fire that ran by so fast I could feel their wind on my back as they passed. Thankfully for them, none knocked against my cup of wine. But they took over that field of several hundred people – they ruled it. I know I saw this last year too, but there are more children now, or I forgot how many there were.

I knew I recognized the name of the band, but it wasn’t until I walked up close to the stage that I recognized Tapwater as the band who sat with us at dinner on the Xingolati cruise. They were the band that was playing in the bar when we first got on the ship, and I think I remember a washboard being involved, but I could be trippin’. Last night, they had a bunch of kids come up on stage to play percussion with them, and in front of the stage, a hundred kids danced around. By kids I don’t mean teenagers. I mean the five to eight set. I am telling you, they absolutely ruled the park last night.

It is cold, gray, lovely here at the beach. I never thought I could love fog so much. It is an abrupt change, as I could never, ever stand the fog before. I think I am going through some kind of life hoop all of a sudden and everything is changing. I even got my hair dyed a permanent color. Am I growing up? Is there a curve ball coming? Or is this state of ease, of happiness, normal, at least for now?

Whatever’s coming, I am ready. I don’t even care if some kid rams into me and knocks over my glass of wine. (Unless it’s, uh, a really good glass of wine.) I don’t care if I can’t write about it, I don’t care if I am crushed by it. All I care about is, the whatever coming. And it is coming, I assure you. And me. I think.

This entry was posted on Friday, August 10th, 2007 at 9:12 pm and is filed under How do I get there, from here?. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.