I forget that this unfettered space is just yawning here, more patient than any soul would bother. When the first itch to write comes and those tiny psychic cracks appear, I thrash about wildly, not knowing where or who to unleash the fury of words upon. And then, every once in a while, I remember how I thought at the beginning of the pajamapocalypse that I would write my way through it – write myself out of it.
That did not happen.
Instead, I cocooned in the blue room with a pair of ageing greyhounds and the brainy boy, arguing Karamazovs and Brontes. No voices were raised in the making of my COVID-delayed divorce. It still feels incomplete somehow, or at least anticlimactic. The world went into slow-mo and the mental health of the human population went to shit, which was doubly bad for those of us who were already a little wobbly.
In an incredibly unhelpful move, I drank like a fish, stopped picking up the phone and spent more time than I’d like to admit arranging candles and religious icons on the shelf above what used to be my closet.
It was always going to have to happen like this. I was always going to have to start again and again until I can, until I DO write myself out of it. So I come here, and am both embarrassed and deeply moved to find the place in order, doors unlocked, cupboards stocked, and the gracious gift of a blank page in front of me. [ Thanks B. for indulging me.]
So yeah, there’s a crack in everything, and you know what that means.
I’ll see you sooner rather than later, though it should be noted that by “you” I mostly mean “me and maybe B., if like he gets some kind of notification when I remember to post.