Just following Instructions

Lately I have had great bloggable thoughts. Tiredly, I tell myself that I will blog them tomorrow. The next day shows up and I have to remind myself to compose a new name for a new blog. The process turns into a collapsible obligation weight that brings me to a fit of tea drinking, TV watching depression. Because being a writer, on any level, is fun.

Don't let anyone lie to you. It's not fun.

Naming the damn thing turned into a damnable chore. Tonight an old writing buddy cleverly came up with a perfect damn name suggestion. It was just a little unreal. I was testing the idea of shifting from nomi-in-nola to nomi-in-nm. I felt it was a weak start to something that was eventually going to mean a lot to me. He casually types in my direction, "The NM in New Mexico could be NeverMind instead. Or Gaiman it up. NomiInNeverwhere."

Gaiman it up. 

Huh. 

Gaiman, in the past month, has been a great comfort to me. I struggle with reading novel length since the accident. I get impatient. I forget events from last chapter. I forget details from the last page. It's painfully frustrating. I want nothing more than to open the virgin spine of a book, sniff delicately and devour for hours. New books and I no longer have the relationship we used to.  

New novels make me feel... dumb. 

I tipped my toe into familiar territory. Non-committal to "Fragile Things."  I'd been reading new poetry all semester, only struggling with Alice Notely. I thought I could allow myself the comfort food of Neil Gaiman poetry and maybe he could make me feel recreationally smart again. 

And he did. He reminded me, through one of my favorite poems, that on "The Day the Saucers Came" I was paying close attention to every detail of drunken angels during Ragnarok cleanse because I wasn't expecting a phone call at all. He gave me "Instructions" on how to stay polite, to always trust in dreams, and how to go home. Or rest.

I was accidentally but intentionally reminded that I am a "Strange Little Girl." 

Gaiman's short stories from the collection rattled irritation in my head. His sort stories have always rattled in my head. They have no girth. No length. Climax crawls or comes to soon. In his defense, my first taste of Gaiman was quietly accented when I fell in love with a king. It takes exactly ten trade paperback novel lengths to fall hazardously in love, be informed of the pending death of your love, and heart crashingly go to The Wake. 

True story. The Dream King taught me how to wait patiently for Death. 

I moved on to re-reading "American Gods" for maybe the fifth time. Blissfully I knew that I would not fall in love with Shadow. I also knew that the slow stroking of climax that moves to the end of the book will not actually be an ending at all. 

It'll be just another day. 

Peter says, "Gaiman it up." 

Neverwhere. If I had a key to a door that would return me to my old life would I be utterly bored by it? Would I want to be Old Naomi instead of New Naomi?

I would be earth shatteringly bored by my old life. Maybe Old Naomi was lovely. I think she was naive. It doesn't matter, because she's dead. 

I'm tired of holding her damn vigil.