whatever comes after the fallow season

Ollie takes ownership of the cube.

Ahem. Hi. Well, gosh, I feel kind of bashful. When you’re internet-quiet for four months, you feel like the next thing you say should be really important, even if that was never the aim of this blog. But all of a sudden this is turning into that worst-of-all-creative-writing-products, the I Don’t Know What To Write A Poem About poem. Or its blogosphere equivalent, the Sorry I Haven’t Posted blog.

I’m not sorry. I’m…rested? I actually have about a thousand things to do this week, so that doesn’t feel like the right word, even if it’s true in the mental sense. I took some time off partly because I felt like my blog was alternately disingenuous or TMI-ish, or maybe both at the same time. This morning I was wondering how to create a voice that is both authentic and not overly revealing. It would have to be some sort of experimental narrative that is always doubling back on itself and calling attention to its own tricks. And that would be no fun. I’d rather try to approximate reality (but with prettier words) and fail (see: pretty words) and live with the consequences.

I’m not sure what Bread and Bread 2.0 will look like. Probably a lot like O.G. Bread and Bread, with slightly less frequency.

It’s fall now, or as I like to call it, Pumkin Spice Latte Season. That feels like a good time to start blogging—it’s a new beginning (love those, always), but not in the naïve, dopey way of spring, or Dark Cherry Mocha Season.

Here is one bit of actual news: A new cat named Cousin Oliver has come to live with us. This has elicited neutral shrugs from Ferdinand and OC, which is the cat equivalent of a warm welcome. I haven’t been too share-y about Ollie, because my PTSD way of thinking is Things that you love go away. But he had a UTI from hell last week, so if force-feeding someone three medications twice a day establishes permanence or ownership, he is ours. He’s crazy-eyed, playful, sweet even when you’re poking him with an eyedropper, and even if he runs away tomorrow, it’s too late: I’m vested. I love this little guy.