Where does your writing hide?
I set a goal that I would write yesterday and I knew immediately that I wouldn't. Words felt lumpy, a little painful. Times like this, I have an out-of-body experience; I seem to be observing my life through a 2-way mirror. I was washing dishes, then watching myself wash dishes as a cat tried to climb my leg. "You could write about that," I said. "You could say..." And then I was neither writing nor washing, just standing and staring.
I started to catalogue all of the things I wasn't doing well enough, spiraling outward from where I stood. I was not tidying up enough, not blogging, behind on grading, not teaching well, not working out, not an attentive enough partner, a giving enough friend. And now I was standing here doing nothing while life happens around me. I don't fear aging, but the passage of time is another thing. How many minutes had gone just now? And now? The seconds stacked and towered.
I shook myself, shook open a garbage bag, and yelped as the bug I startled scrambled across the kitchen floor. Once the reason for my alarm was made clear, K bounded into the room with a confused cat in tow. The cat loves a real life hunt, batting out of mid-air the huge summer flies that float into our apartment on some warm afternoons. He prances around with his live toys, torturing them in a display we would find sickening if his prey were cuter. His delight makes the whole thing weirdly adorable (as long as we don't look too closely) but our energy about introducing him to our guest was freaking him out, and he writhed away before he noticed the cornered adversary. As I chased after the cat that couldn't decide if we were playing a fun game or pestering him, and we took turns trying to direct his gaze or paws to the insect (who seemed to relax as time went on and was not so much cowering as hanging out), I thought about what a story this could make.
And then the cat discovered that there was a bug on the floor. He leapt from my arms, scaring the crawly guy into charging at us from the corner, and we all ran like hell.
I started to catalogue all of the things I wasn't doing well enough, spiraling outward from where I stood. I was not tidying up enough, not blogging, behind on grading, not teaching well, not working out, not an attentive enough partner, a giving enough friend. And now I was standing here doing nothing while life happens around me. I don't fear aging, but the passage of time is another thing. How many minutes had gone just now? And now? The seconds stacked and towered.
I shook myself, shook open a garbage bag, and yelped as the bug I startled scrambled across the kitchen floor. Once the reason for my alarm was made clear, K bounded into the room with a confused cat in tow. The cat loves a real life hunt, batting out of mid-air the huge summer flies that float into our apartment on some warm afternoons. He prances around with his live toys, torturing them in a display we would find sickening if his prey were cuter. His delight makes the whole thing weirdly adorable (as long as we don't look too closely) but our energy about introducing him to our guest was freaking him out, and he writhed away before he noticed the cornered adversary. As I chased after the cat that couldn't decide if we were playing a fun game or pestering him, and we took turns trying to direct his gaze or paws to the insect (who seemed to relax as time went on and was not so much cowering as hanging out), I thought about what a story this could make.
And then the cat discovered that there was a bug on the floor. He leapt from my arms, scaring the crawly guy into charging at us from the corner, and we all ran like hell.