My blog is not my journal. It is not where I write about my most difficult times, most neurotic thoughts (I know, I know, you can't believe I get more neurotic, but I do!), saddest sadnesses. So, I am a little stuck on how to continue blogging when a tragedy befalls my little world. La Bimba, The Husband, and I, we are all fine. A friend in Rome is not. Let's just leave it at that for now.
Of course, there is plenty of tragedy to choose from in the big world out there. Virginia Tech. The Husband's response to that particular massacre was, "And they say Naples is violent." Iraq...
I don't need to go on. I can't go on. La Bimba will learn about these global messes soon enough. For now we put yogurt in our hair, play catch with the remote control, talk to pigeons, rock out to Neapolitan music.
I just downloaded some Daily Show and some Colbert Report, hoping to get caught up on fake news. I am happy to announce that I don't miss Mary-Louise and the rest of the Weeds crew. My subconscious efficiently knocked that obsession out in just two dreams. Subconscious or unconscious? How can I not know the difference?
It smelled like summer today. A little boy named Sergio fell off the jungle gym and sobbed at the bosom of his Peruvian nanny. La Bimba is getting a little temper replete with back flips and swatting. And she is getting new dance moves. She does the twist. She dances to everything. She dances to the sound of me peeing. Tinkle, tinkle, little... It is not gross! Sometimes I have to bring her to the bathroom with me, park her in her high chair in the doorway near the washing machine. She likes the spin cycle.
This post is evasive. It is dancing around quicksand, it is backed against the exterior wall of a tall building too terrified to jump. I feel my resolve slipping. It's hard to be honest.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.