Maybe I just need to break the seal by tip-tap-typing away on this page. Stretch the muscles. Remind myself I can do by doing. I’ve had my story open, I’ve been reading Rilke, I’ve been reading old stories that might have ripe fruit to harvest, I’ve got the time, I’m distracted by how much unfettered time I have. Maybe, baby. It’s Friday and I feel…numb and weird, not relieved, not upset. Just a bit numb and weird.
Maybe I just need the wine I’m going to drink in a bit. I was going to finish this first, but now we’ve gotten to talking and I am trying to research Edwardian meals and not get caught up in the biography of Rudyard Kipling, who, incidentally, aside from that goddamned racism, was also a Freemason and traveled to Egypt in 1913. Everything important happened in 1913. My grandmother was born in 1913. Ah.
Today, I ran an errand back to the old stomping grounds. It was unexpected, middle of the day, hurry to drop this grant off sort of situation and I did it despite the usual fear. The usual Panic of life not coming at me in a precisely measured IV drip. Still, as you can no doubt tell, I was able to manage it. It was controlled today. I hadn’t eaten enough. I felt concerned, but not enough to find reason to say that I couldn’t do what was asked of me. That’s the thing. Practice is something I ask of myself and I can always turn myself down but I can NEVER turn someone else down. Unless you’re some kid’s mom who wants to date me or some dude who wants to date me and is really not clued in to who I am at all and is trying to borrow THE book from me.
No. I need that thing. I sleep with it now.
Yeah, I’ll turn you down.
What else, my friends, my countrymen and women? The actual writing seems a mile away along with the cake and wine and I need a drink before the cotton mouth overtakes me, but I am committed to finish this before anything else happens.
We survived the snow. I got on the bike for half an hour which felt entirely like nothing. I have eaten yesterday’s reuben. I have offended my mother somehow by eating a bagel (mostly because of our terrible secret that the parents can’t know about not being able to go fill our carts at the real grocery store so we turn up like locusts and beggars at their door).
I am doing certain things well enough. I am feeling okay. Still with the ennui and loneliness. I miss my therapist. I am going to get the writing going because this post today feels like garbage. Sorry, world, the literary prowess will be on display in the morrow. Today, Rilke, we write because we must, not because we can.
There were two larks that followed me today and for a moment, it was as if I saw the mark.