Number 18

December 22, 2006 | Category: Well, That Was Random

I have 17 posts, written and dying in limbo.

I hate them all.

There are a few twists of words. A couple of simple setences that maybe, I would keep.

The rest is crap. I couldn't post it.

I hovered over the button, but in the end... no.

This is the longest spell of writer's block I have ever suffered.

I'm starting to hate myself.

I remember once, my dad got real sick. He's a runner, marathons. And for a while he could barely get out of bed. He got better, and angrier. Finally, he dragged on his shorts. Pushed himself out the front door and began shuffling down the driveway. I thought, there goes my dad - he's fucking nuts.

An hour later, he returned. White, coughing, happier.

My days are growing heavier. I need to run. Or at least walk.

I don't miss my old job. God, I miss my old co-workers, but I don't miss the pressure, the thud-thump of the adreneline in my ears, the ever-so-polite arguments between colleagues. Vicious and bloody under calm respectful tones.

"You're going to cost us a million five with this frigging attitude, just get the machines out the door..." but you really say "I hear what you're saying, but I have to say from my side of the project it looks like an expensive delay."

Gritted teeth, gone.

Now we sit by the light of the dining room window and practice "C'c" until he can't, anymore. Opening on the right, swirl and stop. Cat. Car. Clementine. Caveat. Cliff. Cook.

He writes, and writes. Stops and starts. Maze books and practice pads.
He writes, why can't I?

We bounce on the new bed. Giggle and dance. We sing Frosty, and make up our lyrics.

I don't miss my old job. I miss the hours in front of the keyboard. The window open, behind all that work. The one I would slip back to, with my thoughts.

Now, when I ease behind my keyboard, he looks at me from the chair. He's watching Handy Manny or something else with animated figures who are not his mom. He looks at me, jealous. I nod back, push away from the desk.

[delete]

It doesn't matter.

Damn it.

Last night was the longest night of the year. The deepest dark. Just a couple of weeks ago, we celebrated the first Sunday in Yule with as many traditional Icelandic parts that I could muster.

Translated recipes from Metric. Reserved marzipan cake.

Why is it so much easier to do for someone else when you won't for yourself?

So I sat him on the couch.

"I need to go for a run..." I said. "I mean, I need to write. The housework and Bear's lessons and having my computer in the middle of the house where I feel like I am actually sitting on some kind of family landing strip... I can't write. It's never quiet. And if I make it quiet, that means putting Bear in front of a TV even more than we let him now, which I can't do..."

"But you wanted your computer in the den, you had me..."

"I know," I whispered, miserable, unable to explain.

"So what do we do?" he asks, looking at me.

And so we decided to move my computer back into the guest room. And to carve out some time every day. And I woke up this morning to the dishes humming, and the laundry spinning. Stood all weepy in my kitchen, thankful for his gift of trying to understand.

I never did, with my dad. Through the rain, the snow, the pain. He never stopped. Some days he had great time. Some days he wandered off his usual path for an extra hour.

I would watch him walk, huffing, back up the driveway. Stop before the door, soaked in sweat, bent over, stretching.

At peace.

I picked up my first journal when I was 13 years old.

And since, have never put it down for more than a few days.

Somehow, the words will come back.

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