11/27/16

“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.” — Virginia Woolf

In her extended essay, Ms. Woolf postulates that all a woman would need was some money and a room of her own (with a lock) to create something meaningful and lasting. I think about this as I just spent about an hour setting up my creative space, conscious of making it mine with all creative inspirations within view. I do this a lot. I set up situations that feel meaningful, curate moments to explode with poignancy, and devote more mind-space to preparing to create than actually creating.

Today I’m feeling low. Days of off work make the return to a regular week especially tedious. And Sundays are ripe for regret: If only I’d begun this yesterday… If I would just begin this project… Well if I start within the next hour… these are all included in the baggage I bring along with me, wrapped up in the fabric I attach to that long stick in my hobo’s journey through life. Even as I write this I’m calculating how to trek through the afternoon and into the evening feeling accomplished.

The crux of the problem for me is feeling no agency. All of the tasks I force upon my psyche to improve myself also feel independently daunting. The other day I postulated that if I learned to speak German, play the banjo, skillfully navigate chess, exercise, write daily, photograph important moments, dutifully lesson plan, organize my library at work, and keep all other objects where they belong, then I would feel satisfaction and life would flow smoothly. And reviewing that daunting list now I believe it. I also know I believe that I am unprepared to do any one of those tasks, let alone balance them all. So the drain clogs. So the water sits. So the void festers.

—– time passes (9 days) —–

12/6/16

Today began in the wisp of a dream. I had conjured a baby kitten, rescued, that had filled my life and home with anxiety and joy. Somewhere in the dreamworld I found the fuzzy being that would bring me solace on nights of loneliness, fill the void when no one else could. I was acutely aware that I was allergic to the kitten, but I was also fixated on the joy taking care of her would bring. In dream-time, months were filled vaccinating, shopping for, cuddling with, and being with this being who loved me.

Sadness. Tonight and last night, and somewhat the night before… I’m at home with my husband and hiding upstairs so that I don’t have to spend the evening in awkward silence. So the hurt can relax into something that still feels like love.

—– emotions abate (9 minutes later) —–

I must contend with myself. I must not get bogged down in things that should fulfill me. I must fulfill me. I must slow down for those speed bumps. I must yield to those that must enter the lane before me.

Or… I fear that I will chose sleep. Because this enervates me. This hiding. This dread. All of the what ifs.