The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. - Mark Twain
I apologize for my absence. I've been comforting my inner eight-year-old.
You know, of course, that Silver-cat is no longer with me. Julia Child died as well. I knew she would, eventually, but did it have to be this week?
I received mail to the effect that someone does not want to be friends with me. From two separate sources. In the space of a week. One of them even used the word "Goodbye." Ouch.
Now, don't get me right, I'm just askin' (as my word-hero, Yogi, has said) but am I weird to be hurt?
I treasure my inner eight-year-old: the boundless enthusiasm and optimism, the willingness to try anything once, twice if it's fun, the devotion to sensation and beauty. And while the "elder" me understands, intellectually, that not everyone will like me, the child inside wonders "how come?"
Fortunately, there are those who encourage me. Sachi, who feeds me emotionally and literally,(still chowing down ochazuki, thanks, sweetie!); Rob, who says that my writing feeds him; the Prince, who shakes his head in resignation at my effusive greeting- he was only on vacation a week- but permits my embrace; returns it, even; BuddahPat, who always greets me with, "Hi, Beautiful," and the Animal, who checks up on me and promises diversion. I am deeply grateful to people who appreciate my quirky ways.
So I soothe that young spirit, and spend time playing in the sun. As Jada Pinkett Smith is quoted as saying, "I've always been someone who wanted to consume the world in one big gulp."
Yeah. With juice dripping down my chin.