I am so bound these days to the personality of the culture to which I have been indentured that it is difficult, as borne out by my absence from these pages, my absence of anything longer than a sniff in the general direction of journaling, to tear myself back to all prior realities.
Realities of myself as a writer, chiefly, even just a struggling one in my own mind. Realities of myself as a daughter – one who has a mother who needs to be checked in on, a father, too, who needs something more than just a few minutes popping by now and again. Realities of myself as a friend who has good friends who are also in struggle and pain and confusion and transition and get me in the form of a solitary shriek or a squeal and then silence for ages upon end.
Truly, it’s only J who gets the rest of it and even there he knows, kindly, that there has to be less of it – my time, my consideration, my limited conversation, than there was when I worked at the shop and could text between customers and thrill at his every show of wit, his every meme. Now, it’s the weekends and a few scraps of time at night because if I comment on things in the morning, I will slip headlong into the well of distraction and suddenly, I am not paying attention to where the boss should be at that moment or someone will sneak around my cubicle and stare down at me while I have my head in the phone. So there’s none of that. And it saddens me, really, as to the feeling of constant distance that you have to battle back from. Energy I never had to begin with is required to say, no, wait, stop, come back here and let me spend my time thinking about what you care to say.
As right now, work is less a place I go and more a frame of mind that is becoming harder and harder to escape because if I can just maintain the status quo, sometimes it’s almost fun. If I know what is happening and how I can help, then I can protect myself from having the wind knocked out of me. I will see the threats early enough so I can dodge. I feel like it’s necessary
I want to always be checking, always being aware, it’s only just begun to feel slightly easier. And I think that and come to realize that as clever as I might be about that one task, that one idea, there are ten more pressing down upon it and those I have no idea about, No instant bolt of logic and good sense as my role might require.
So where does the writer live when that’s the attitude my mind is taking? How do I dazzle and dance and feel free and weird and witchy and alone when this pod is taking over my life?