I grinned inwardly when I realized that this catching disease was only spread through the comments on one's weblog--I am guaranteed immunity then, I thought, as the ability to leave a comment on my blog has been thwarted.

I was wrong, though, and now I've been tagged too many times to continue ignoring it, because that's rude you see. They find ways, they just do. The only hope for me is to not spread the virus--so read on, and don't worry about being tagged, I'll spare you:

1. My plan was to enable comments this month anyway. This is a good a post as any to let the little beggar back in.

B. After increasing requests from, well, namely one person, but other people too: Beginning as soon as I get the nerve, I will commence 30 days of writing every day on this blog. I know. Thank you very much, you may all close your gaping mouths now. Really.

mi. I own over 1000 books and I haven't seen them in two years. They're packed in storage for a better day, and a place of my own.

IV. I love to create: sew, remake, paint, draw, write, build, rebuild, anything--I love taking nothing and making something.

IIII. Every few weeks I lay in bed at night and promise myself that I WILL NOT drink coffee the next day, not because I drink too much, a cup a day is all, but because I am entirely dependent on that cup a day. I never hold good to my promise.

Seis. I play the piano. I do. I'm not, well, her or her, but I do play. I never tried to keep it a secret, though I only learned in the past seven or so years, but I guess it's just not something people know; at least they always show surprise when they find out.

שֶׁבַע. I am Friend #7. If you didn't already know, I am she. Yes. My antics are owned now.

We shared space. I would lay in my bed and listen to you touch keys and make music. My ceiling would sound when you practiced ballet and our kitchen always smelled of coffee and scones because of you. You knew me better than anyone, and sometimes you still do. We dreamed about the future, while we walked down Hardscrabble Road, Sixth Street, Elm Street, and the road we live on now.

You left sticky notes up on my mirror the day my heart was broken and you made me oatmeal on Christmas morning. I met this family because of you, then you left. I met him because of you, then I left. I met myself because of you, a roommate is a better mirror than one made of glass.

We would sit on the porch on sweltering summer nights, you with your fat Bible and me with my poems. You said nothing and I did too, giving new meaning to having nothing in common. You cried on the phone with me the other night and I remembered when I first met you, how I loved you so. I will drive somewhere today and pick you up, put you in my car, and we will drive, the two of us, to where we used to live. Together.

You used to write songs in the other room and I would write at the same time. Creativity begets creativity. We lit candles and danced our way to midnight with words and music and mutual appreciation. You helped me take my first steps, though I don't remember. And you help me take steps every day, this I will always remember. We never talk anymore, but I know when we see one another again, it will be like it always was--though I wish not, because it never was very good anyway. I have hope for more.

I still wear the brown jacket you gave me that day, flinging it on my bed like you are--one bird in constant flight, flinging your heart in every direction. The slippers you gave me still warm my feet. Do you still wear the skirt I let you borrow so often we couldn't remember whose it really was after all? It doesn't matter, it's yours now.

Like my heart. It's all yours, I've shared it too much and for too long to remember who's gotten pieces of it and who hasn't.

All I know is that once we lived together, worked together, played together, laughed together, lived together.

And we became a part of who I am.

"Don't make art, just make sense."

My new favorite quote from none other than the book I said would be my favorite. You didn't believe me? Believe me. Some people say I have too many favorite things. But I say I have to, it's so rare to find a favorite that I really want to keep the all ones I have.

So this quote, it's been added to my pile of favorites.

Mostly because it's the sort of thing I say to myself every single time I sit down to write. Or to sew. Or to paint. Or to speak. It doesn't have to be perfect, I say, it just has to communicate.

I sat in the rocker this morning, next to the woodstove, and stared a painting on the wall that was my nemesis for a month a few years ago. My art teacher was demanding of me--standing over my shoulder with furrowed brows and not many words. He frightened me into believing I could do better than misshaped monochromatic still-lifes, and later pushed me to paint my favorite a short story. It ended up being my best work that semester.

Why?

Because he told me to stop making art and just communicate.

Just tell the story, don't make it pretty, don't fill in the white space, don't over-communicate, give meaning to every color and stroke--and eliminate anything that doesn't add.

In good poetry we omit every word unless it has integral meaning attached to it. At least two layers of meaning, better if it has more. That's how important a word is.

One word.

Or two. Just make sense.

The rest will work itself out.