My favorite thing in the world was always to go with a good friend and sit in a café and talk. And talk. And talk. I always found that there was an art form to a good conversation. It relys on subject matter, of course, but also pacing, environment, level of enthusiasm and continuity. I was always an avid, if fledgling, participant. I rarely ran out of material.This is no loner the case. I can barely have a conversation that lasts more than 2 sentences. Okay, 2 words. I am so tired at night that all I can squeak out is "TV. On." We went on a picnic last Sunday with my friend Molly and I could not think of ONE thing to say. This is no reflection on my relationship with her. It is with EVERYONE. I used to pride myself on my ability to make small talk with just about anyone I came across. Now I fumble and bumble and then finally get out what I think is a witty remark and as soon as it eeks out I think, Holy Shit. That person nows knows I am an idiot. In fact, they probably think that I am mentally handicapped. They are going to call the local institution and have me carried away. At least I'll get some rest there. But I miss good conversations over coffee or red wine. Sitting at the table after a delicious dinner has been consumed and laughing until your sides split. The conversations I now have consist of "Doo-doo Daa-daa", which is splendid if you are seven months old. Not so fulfilling if you are 38. So now I have resorted to reading blogs, so that I can read other people's conversations. I know that the joy of conversation and I will cross paths again. And until then, it's going to be a doo-doo daa-daa world. And wouldn't the Dadaists be proud.