Today I am hearing everything the way Charlie Brown's teacher says it: Wah-Wah-Wah-Wah-Wah. Considering that the sound of the teacher's voice was made with a trombone and a plunger, it shows you how my day has gone ...
It is raining outside, tiny drops of ice falling from brown-grey clouds and clicking against windows and sidewalks to create a crystal cacaphony of quiet contemplation. I've been trying to write for hours, instead distracting myself with tea and art supply catalogues and dreams of just a few colored pencils so that I might draw knitting to be designed. It is cold here, again, and I have just turned down the heater so that my housemate does not worry about the bill. I was recently in a house where they keep the thermostat at 72 degrees ... I was so warm it was nearly uncomfortable. Such a radical change from my norm.
Tonight I will be even colder, sleeping in my bed alone for the first time in a week, uncertain of how I will keep from shivering all night. Ribbons of rain have frozen onto glass panes in scattered, shattered lines. The other window in this room is mostly covered in thick spiderwebs of frost. The occasional plume of dryer steam escapes the vent into the driveway outside, signs of life in the neighbor's home. I'm vacillating between cooking dinner and just going without, confused by the thought of feeding only myself tonight. For the last month, I have done for two: cooked, cleaned, laundered. Tonight it is I, and I am unsure what to do.
I have grand dreams of writing, of working days and writing nights, spending hours in coffeeshops with bottomless cups and pouring my every thought and desire through ink onto the page. Christmas songs ring on the radio, some strange station I could not identify having a marathon of holiday music. I stopped here because the news was too depressing to tolerate.
Friends came by this afternoon, bringing frozen soup and boxes of goods and a fleece jacket in which to drown in the warmth. They do not want me to be cold, and yet here I am, just six hours later, bundled in layers of sweatshirts and denim and socks, my breath just visible in my upstairs room; my writing tools downstairs, in the common room, waiting patiently for my hands to embrace them. I am afraid to do so, afraid to pick up the pen and draw ink from my veins onto the bark beneath me. I am afraid of what lays there.
So I sit in the darkness of this office, the blue glow of an electronic screen my only companion, the back door slamming in the gusts of frigid air, and wonder: Do I dare? Do I dare pick up that pen and write? Do I wake the slumbering giant and find the golden egg beneath hir breast? Do I dare? Do I dare?
What would you do? Would you dare?