The goal is not five hundred words, no, the goal is just a hundred words five times and anyone can write a hundred words. You can trip over a log and find yourself having written a hundred words about the day, the air, the reverie you were in, the feeling of your foot catching beneath the heft of the woody column set asunder, the awful feeling of losing your balance if only for just half a moment, and then the relief of righting yourself without totally falling on your hands and wrists and knees, and then, of course the momentary flush of embarrassment in case someone saw you when you were not exhibiting perfect equilibrium, before striding back into the forest on the trail of whatever adventure you were calling your quarry.
See, a hundred words is nothing. It’s breath.
It is only 8:30 tonight, though, and breathing continues to be hard given that my head had been converted into some kind of aqueduct system for snot and what I need to do is medicate with the good stuff and sleep. But I’ve been saying that a lot lately and I only have tomorrow to do whatever mental gymnastics need doing to make the break between the girl who was formerly employed in a particular place and had a particular view of herself that insinuated she was only worth as much as she could be responsible and the girl who found it in herself to go to Italy where nobody knew the former girl existed and now…now the new iteration, the girl who dared to find herself a new situation and a new frame of mind. And I think I need to be mostly awake to do that. Even if I’m not exactly sure of the process. It might involve buying a new outfit tomorrow. It might involve lighting a candle (a path a girl who was a thousand years ago might take). It might involve planning on when we go low-carb. But mostly, I think, I have to enjoy this weekend and not think about the raft of unsettling worries my brain has floating around in this primordial goop that is running out of a couple of major orifi right now.
Just a few words at a time. Anyone can hack that.
Okay, yeah, so today, we went to a little suburb about forty-five minutes away and saw our friend and her family and a whole ton of other people I only know from just these sorts of situations on the occasion of my friend’s son’s 1st birthday. He continues to be a happy little baby and I gave him a low-tech stuffed tiger who looks a bit like Hobbes because everyone needs a Hobbes. I didn’t come away with any pressing desire to press the magic button and insta-family especially since two of the women around my age were bitching about the traffic at Costco on a Saturday and I don’t want to be that sort of woman. That much is clear. Instead, I just feel like, yeah, let’s get organized. Which is better.