Yes.
I could go on with this piece for quite some while, I think.

Since, indeed, it seems to be entitled Timely Befuddlement, though it masquerades under the misnomer of Something Else, and yet, says Jeanne, it is (or was)about nothing.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. I was here.

Here is the place my mother saw years ago and cried for joy.
This place she thought looked like "a lovely cottage in the woods up north." A place where she knew in her heart was the place of all places that her daughter was happy.

And I was.

And I am, I guess, but if this is so why do I cry?

I am told that God counts the tears of a woman.

As I was saying at the end of the first piece this is joined to here: It's about time.

It's about time my child abuse perpetrating Aunt was dead. I know this because she up and died on the Fifth of March, which, in the parlance of the unending-wallowing self- deluding increasingly-satisfied-with-itself kind of an alcoholic might be actually a bottle to worship into perpetuity.
What? Why the Fifth of March, of course.

It is that day in this year of Our Lord (which any not terribly self-respecting drunk might guzzle its fill of enebriates until the pain subsides entirely), herein designated March The 5th, 2007. It is, was the day that a woman died. A particular woman. One woman I had not seen in donkey's years, but who did attain the not so grand old age of 70 oh, not a lot. She was born on February 22, 1931 and did die a few weeks ago, making her approximately a little over 76, it seems when she dropped The Mortal Coil, certain tiny portions of which I stood upon yesterday in the Spring Wind of my Sadness as I looked at the graves of my:

A. Grandfather who was drowned in 1936 during an epileptic seizure, and about whom I have only been told a very few facts.
B. Grandmother about whom it feels as if I could write an entire book (I say this with no proof to offer just now).
C. Great Grandmother, Anietchka. Who's name I only recall being mentioned repeatedly, and who I believe I saw in a casket when I was very small.
I say she was my great grandmom even as I have no one around to substantiate this claim. Ah. Yes. A journaling about nothing, you say, Jeanne?

D. Aunt. Who was cremated and whose ashes were sprinkled on the moist ground. Moist with the tears of a gray sky.

Ancestors all.

Focus, Barbara. Tell us what you are getting at, will you?

Ok. I am getting at my own tears about no one knowing who I am, or caring what might become of me.

I am getting at the sadness and all the other components of grief which are generated by the loss of those who connect me to my mother and my father.

To my sense of wholeness on this earth.

Remnant that I am. Speck in the wind that I have become. Here tossing words into the atmosphere. Clicking on this keyboard here to deny death. Or is it to affirm it.

I really do not know.

Nothing or Time. Time or Nothing. Place or person. Person or persons. One or many. Those who have gone before. What remains?

Golden armor from breast to knees.