Day 9

Day 9.

Right.

No novel. But something’s cooking. In the mean time I’m racing to finish Zadie Smith’s White Teeth. It’s teaching me a lot about writing. She’s very down to earth in her prose. Vernacular, but poetic. And she deals in the realm of human beings; real, live human beings. Or at least that’s what her characters become: real. 

She has situated herself at important intersections with this work: race, class, religion, immigration, technology, sexuality, growing up, getting old. She has packed it all into this book. And honestly, it amazes me. She has a way with words, you know? A way to bring it all to life. And then there are these moments where she comes out and says something brilliant, or downright hilarious; where she takes a whole page to talk about what it means to be involved with people. I find her challenging me in ways I didn’t imagine when I began reading.

I shall have it done tonight. Other than that, there is nothing new to report.

I have spent another day completely alone inside my studio. The room is made of hardwood. Near the middle, there is a thick line of white paint running end to end. On the side nearest the kitchen, there is a couch–which I’m lying on now. There are two desks. One a dark walnut color. The other… well whatever wood is light–like you might see at IKEA. They face opposite directions. I mostly spend my time at the walnut desk, facing the river and the tree line. Although for the past three days it has been the couch. There’s a broken chair in the corner facing the wall. Large bay windows stretching all around the studio. Two plants that add something to the space. I’m not sure what. I’m not sure if I really like them at all. They seem lifeless. Stupid adornments. At the foot of the couch there is a rug with the sorts of designs you might see at a rug store in New Mexico; sort of desert-looking, tribal in a sense. Behind me is a lamp. It’s the only light I use in here.

Not much to talk about, folks. Depression. Bouts of crying that usually last ten seconds with multiple-hour intervals in between. Silence, pretty much the whole day were it not for the tap tap of my fingers on keys. And the huffing of air vents. I went outside for all of forty five seconds today. This place is really feeding my more reclusive tendencies, and I’m not mad about it.

There was a lot of mooing from distant cows today. I suspect they’re across the river; that or the Bessies up the hill are learning to let their calls resonate and reverberate, bounce off and through the endless trees.

I find myself in limbo. A liminal space. In between places to live, in between on my novel, in between with the one I love, in between on finding out about grad school. It’s a lot of uncertainty.

Not to mention I’m out of weed so my dreams are getting more vivid, more intense. Last night I dreamt that I was kidnapped. The night before I was at some sort of assembly, and among those waiting in line to enter were my friends from high school, towering over me because they had all strapped bean cans to the bottoms of their shoes. And the night before that, I dreamt I was given two eggs that hatched into kittens and a baby boy who I apparently sired; he was half black and I named him Prince. There is a lucidity to these dreams–and yet an equal sense of confusion. They are just so real. Last night I woke up mid-dream some time around 4am, sweating, my heart racing, my body filled with a strange distant fear.

The images in my mind are indistinct, blurry.

I only know it’s Thursday because my computer says so. Otherwise I have lost my sense of time.

Sometimes you set out to accomplish something and you have to take some detours to get it done. You have to accept that things can’t be forced. It’s like creative constipation. But it’ll come out. I know it will.

For now, this is it. Nothing else to report.

Day 9. Peace. Calm. Quiet. Gentle dejection. Wishing things were different. Grateful for how they are. Missing the old. Craving the new. Sitting here. Not so much waiting as living.

Limbo.

But hey, at least I’m on my own, right? Least I’m following my star. That’s got to count for something.

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