Snow today, readying for the weather. Up early with the spouse to help build plow teams. Coffee and raisin toast, litany of nightly carnage on the morning news.
Write a book, he says. This thingamajiggy is only for people who write books.
Instead I write a moany email to to a friend. All about my habitual (indulging) inclination toward stuckness, blah blah blah. Immediately after hitting Send I see the whole thing illuminated in reverse: the simple problem being my inadequate supply of stick-to-it-iveness.
And so I sit me here writing. As episodic and halting and whatever whatever as the project may be. Regardless, so, I write.
I’ve been grappling a bit lately, actually, with what indeed to post here on the blog, words-wise. Images seem to have been no problem whatsoever for awhile now, but I can’t seem to fix on a doggone thing to say out loud in this space. Facebook yadda yadda and Twitter blurt and nary a paragraph for Navelgazer. The thing’s become a dingdang slideshow.
Where have I been writing? A bit on my iPhone, on and off. There’s a running Note called Writing/Thoughts. It’s undated, unfortunately, so not so terribly helpful in a journal or blog sense. Sort of blowsy impressionistic blur of days around the hood, most likely, maybe something in it for the essay I’ve been noodling so long now.
Suddenly, now, the past few days there’s been a spate of urgent chronicling and inventory. New year and birthday and all, o, that august numeral of forty-five.
I’m both embarrassed and ashamed to be so insistently insolvent. The lizard brain somehow still lurks among the 1% while the earthly body sinks down through the muck of ninety-nine.
I seek reprieve in video consumption, social media, and fattening snacks.
My husband works and sleeps then works again.