Dear Diary,

I am back to words.

1. I have caught up on all but four of the webcomics I read.
2. I have looked up writing competitions.
3. I have sketched out plotlines.
4. I went to the book give-away
• gathered transparencies and math books
• stocked up on "reading lists for schoolchildren" titles
• expanded my Newberry and Caldecott Award-winning or honor book library
5. I am reading
• I have finished Still Life with Woodpecker  and 29 Gifts
• I am reading The Illiad with my high school student.
• I am reading Sons of Fortune and Thin Skin
6. I am teaching English, and learning some details of the structure of Korean language.
• I can write "Seoul" and "South Korea" and "Wan" in Korean, though I can't pronounce them.
7. I just signed up for Camp Nanowrimo. There are two--one in July and one in August. Both of those months have 31 days instead of 30, which means 1,613 words a day--fifty-four fewer than in November.

So. Maybe I'll write more in my fancy beautiful diary and insert the fun parts here. I wouldn't get my hopes up, though.

Dear Diary,

A great weight has been lifted. If only the rest would ease up.

It has been a difficult year. The things that could happen have been settling around my shoulders in the form of a constant crick in the neck. I love my friends, and I would do anything for them, including bear their stresses. The empathy gene keeps me from having many friends because I have to truly and entirely love you to keep you close, and I can't just do that for anybody. This came from my sister being my best friend since the day she was born (possibly sooner, but I'm being general as I can't actually remember). It became normal to love one's friend unconditionally.

Here is no timeline, just five families struggling.

Two families have had miscarriages in the past year. I have been there, cried for me and cried for them and cried for three babies--all potentially first children--that I will never know.

Two families have had unjust charges brought against them by the same policing entity. From kidnapping to domestic abuse, only the stress and uncertainty of a trial could weed out what happened from what didn't happen for each of these. Both fathers were given probation- beautiful for the families- for crimes they did indeed commit, which are minor in both cases. The justice system, however flawed, works well enough I can keep my faith in it.

Two families will move away from me in the next year, maybe three. After watching three friends leave already, and making only three since, I am slow to keep up.

One family has broken down completely, needing care and supervision and trust and patience.

Five families, none of them mine. If I had compartments, I'd use them. Instead, my body revolts with headaches and nausea that last for days, and other remnants of shock and shot nerves. When I count my blessings, I am only reminded of those things I have that others don't. Do I have survivor's guilt?

It seems most suspense has truly ended, and next is a series of starts, whether I start helping friends pack, or start knitting another baby hat, or start homeschooling another student, I hope I find in these starts a remarkable lack of this guilt, if that is what it is.

Dear Diary,

 We managed to get the rest of the house finished up and emptied today. I expected to help load the furniture but the girls seemed not to need my help. I went back and canceled the newspaper while the boys (my uncle, my cousin, and my other cousin's husband) disassembled the carport. When I discovered my uncle's back and my cousin's COPD brought them inside leaving my cousin-in-law out in the cold by himself, I passed the last cancellation job over to my sister (who had brought me coffee and donuts) and went out to help.

Dear Diary,

I couldn't get out of bed, but I wasn't up long when my sisters came knocking eager to do up my hair again. I turned them down, but ended up over there anyway. They crinkled up my hair with a different hair product from yesterday and raved at how pretty it was. I'm not sure, but I think that the constant raving about the amazing nature of a feature makes most girls pretty happy. I was a bit irritated and couldn't wait to get done with it. I thanked them because it was kind of nice to be fussed over, but I'm glad I don't have that done often. I escaped to the lobby with Dad's laptop to check my email.

Dear Diary,

Prologue to the next four days.

I flew to St. Louis. My sisters picked me up at the airport.

Dear Diary,

My written journal for today reads:

"Knitting that shawl is taking forever! [Insert story about J & how the pen & how that got all weird]"

The story goes...
My friend got a job teaching just after she got her degree. I started thinking she'd like a fountain pen, if only I could find and/or afford the right one. She's steampunk (very interesting pens to match this quality) and Victorian (there is one pen...just the one, but the absolutely perfect one--at over a thousand dollars). So I needed to compromise. I invited another friend (the aforementioned J) to assist and co-give this with me. So she and I spend months--months!--eliminating pens and narrowing down the qualities.

The pen she chose--she did the ordering--was offline, after she didn't check the pens I directed her to at a particular brick-and-mortar. It was, however, on the list, and she did remember to order a bladder, cartridges, and an inkwell.

When everything had finally come together (the shipments came all staggered and weird), she brought the box to knitting today, and anticipated my arrival. She brought it in and sat with it across from the reciepient. I was on my way. Unfortunately, I did not prioritize getting to the coffee house, and J had to leave to go to work. While I wasn't there, the recipiant was probing for an answer to what was in the box. J had two choices, leave the recipiant hanging and take it with her, or give it to her before she left, hoping I would arrive during the process.

When I got there, she had left. The gift had been well received. The giver was bummed I wasn't there, and I was bummed I hadn't been told there was a time limit.

Eh, it wasn't the most perfect gift-giving experience, but I had done it. We had worked together, chosen the perfect pen-and-ink combination and gave a "Congratulations! You're a Teacher!" gift to a teacher who'd been teaching nearly 5 months by now. I love that pen, and the time we'd spent choosing it was well worth it.

Now, if I only knew if she was writing with it...

Dear Diary,

It was the Open Reading night for the Professors of Mesa State Reading Series. I read first. The person who signed the page first signed halfway down the page. I signed halfway between her name and the top of the page. No one signed before me. I don't mind...I accepted that risk when I wrote it.

The kids were being watched by my husband's aunt, the first time we've ever asked her to do that. The way the extended family unit is crumbling is affecting even us, here, out of the way.

I had spent a few hours browsing the short bits my husband had selected during the day from my LiveJournal. That's where I keep the really good stuff, by the way. Or, where I kept it, anyway. I'm trying to bring that energy over here but it's a tedious thing to change one's habits and make one perform for people one knows.

Which is what I did tonight anyway. My bits were all short. I chose six. I read the one about my sister in the news playing baseball on base in Baghdad. I also chose the one about drag racing a cop. I read the one about how a successful progeneration is one that out ranks the intelligence of the parents.

It was a good night. I recognized most of the people I expected to be there, though the professor who told me I should read was not there and I was a bit miffed.

My husband enjoyed it much more than I thought he would, too. Maybe we have more open readings in our future....if only I could get him to read something of his own.