Confessions

1. I really, seriously, and with absolutely no reservations can state that I could not care less about Michael Jackson. He wasn't an important part of my life, ever. He meant very little to me. I really don't care that much about the deaths of Farrah Fawcett or Billy May (for crying out loud...really?...I should care WHY?) or any of the other celebrities who in no significant way had any real impact on my life. When I hear about certain deaths, I stop for a moment and think, "Oh, that's a loss." And then I move on. With Michael Jackson? Not really sure it's even a loss. It's not that I wished him dead or anything. I just...don't care. Of course, what I think doesn't matter in any real sense. He meant nothing to me, and I meant less than that to him. I moved on long ago.
   
2. Part of the reason for the above is that music has never been important in my life. I know that's alien to many people, but there it is. My life has always been about words. Not music. Not pictures, either--be they on a screen, or in a frame. (If you know me in real life, I've probably told you about how my dreams are rarely visual, how they're almost exclusively spoken/'felt' narratives, sometimes complete with 'he said's and 'she said's. I'm sure there's a neurological explanation for this, but there it is.) Thus, while there are a couple of musicians whose deaths I can see making me hesitate for a few moments--Bruce, for sure; James Taylor; Billy Joel, maybe--none are likely to bring me to tears. But when a writer I love passes? That hurts.
3. I'm missing Em something fierce this summer. More than usual. Undoubtedly, this is because she's 'there' already...or getting 'there'...with 'there' being the place in pre-adolescence when you start to separate. She calls less frequently, and when she does, she's not excited to talk to me, not bursting with stories, not feeling like she needs me to know everything that happens to her. Normal. Good, probably. Painful as hell.
4. I am well aware of the ways in which I need to be helping N start this own separation process, even at 8 years of age. But there are times when I actively avoid pushing him toward independence, because he's my baby, and I need a baby right now.
5. I ought to be working. But instead, I'm confessing. Deadlines and me? Not even really on speaking terms lately.
   
6. Dang, I'm hungry. Time for lunch. Then off to the bookstore, where hopefully there will be no CNN coverage to roll my eyes at.