I need to work to get this unsettled feeling off of my chest, before it turns into a big grey weight and crushes me.
There is so much I want to write about. I have so many stories. I have no time for any of them, except for snippets. It’s been long since I’ve allowed myself to just escape into writing without reservation or time frame. My body is either so, so tired at night, and here at work I can’t delve too deep into my imagination. What happens is a trance, followed by an unfinished feeling that sticks with me for long afterwards. The works that proceeds when I’m able to pick the writing back up again is hopelessly flawed. It’s like cutting off a limb and then replacing it with a sausage limb.
Do all artists and writers feel this restless? Or is it my familial tendency? My ancestry includes vaudeville performers and traveling salesmen, is this my blood-earned destiny? Part of me feels like I’ll fall into a place that will just hum, and I’ll say to Gary, this is the place. I don’t feel like I’ve found it yet. Maybe I’ve read too many novels….remember the part Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife where Henry lets Clare stumble upon the house she knows that they’re meant to live in, even though he already knows of course which house she will choose?
I think we just have to maybe…create the place, in word and surroundings and in deed. I am about to enter my educational path (finally, thank god, it’s about time, sweet justice). I just have to settle to make it so. My eyes need to look forward, of course, but not too forward. Living in the future is for aliens, and children in fantasy books. I need to write out the restlessness and turn it into something to gobble up like pastry. Once that well has been tapped, and gathered in its own silver bucket, then we can “live openly, without hiding anything” (as the Dayton-born Natalie Clifford Barney said).
Regardless, here is what’s on my mind today:
Old black and white photographs, torn and worn and well-loved
Thick pots of color, pots of peonies, chalkboard black and grey
This vanilla rooibos tea I am drinking, which has brightened my dull and dark office with its sweet red taste
The places I have been, and the places I will go
My small, compact family and the universe that we inhabit
The elk that are waiting for us in the fog, how I hope they grace us with their presence