My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I have a month's worth of Sunday NYT to read. It usually takes up a good part of Sunday morning in bed with tea to get through the whole thing (well, I save the book review for later). The March 7th issue had a obit of Patricia Travers, child violin prodigy who played into her 20's and then disappeared until she died in her 80's. She lived with her parents and played for her mother after playing in symphonies all over the world. Thank goodness I was no child prodigy. I was a dreamy, out-of-focus kid who rode a bike, fell a lot trying to roller skate and read Nancy Drew and Greek mythology under the covers with a flashlight.

I think the Greek mythology messed me up. Medusa's head dripping blood on the desert and cactus springing up where a drop hit the sand. Oh, and the snakes for hair.

I wrote poetry too. I didn't know it was 'art'. I wrote because the light coming through my window at night scared me. The city I grew up in was cloudy, rainy and very cold in the winter. Gloomy really. Edgar Allen Poe-ish weather. One of the lines in a poem from the 4th grade was 'iron clad clouds".

Day and night are all mixed up right now. And eating. I'm averse to eating. Food tastes crummy and chewing is such a chore. This is what happens in the lost love department, phase 1. I'm not sure what phase 2 looks like. I'll let you know. Maybe I already did phase 2 with the clothes buying madness.

I must say that throwing out old love notes and letters has a certain satisfaction. Erasing emails from a certain someone. So there, that'll show you! Gawd, whatever. Sad, so sad. I did almost start to cry at Trader Joe's. I stopped myself. No public humiliation please.