Reality's shadow
17 June 2011 06:55 AM Categories: Quotidian existence
That's what I scrawled on a notebook in the dark last night, knowing that just the action of scrawling would make it stick in my head. I had a character in mind, maybe a story, and was looking forward to taking off with it on my prompt this morning, the penultimate day of the Round Robin. I did use it, but I can't post it here, because the man for whom theory was bunk is not quite theoretical and some things are not meant for the blog.
I woke up at 3:30 this morning, was thrust into wakefulness by my overactive, theory-driven mind. Maybe it's because it is the last day of school for the boy. I don't do well with transitions. I'm sad about the end of kindergarten. I've gotten used to our little routine, the stroll to and from school, the regular play dates. The summer should be fun -- I am actually looking forward to some unstructured time with the boy and we'll see friends -- but still, endings always make me sad.
My thoughts are gathering in some unconscious part of my brain, or so I hope, because outside of the prompts, I haven't written a damn thing for the last month. I've been clearing closets, watering plants, putting away dishes, vacuuming carpets. I've been taking care of business, the checkbook, the doctor's appointments, the pestering of the sewer lateral folks. It's all action after quite a long stretch of the inability to act. So that's a good thing. I am trying not to be scared that my writing mind is an almost blank. I tell myself I need this time to learn how to live again, that I am gathering, always gathering. I hope I am right.
Sometimes I remind myself that I can write by imagining a moment and making it real. I create a facsimile of life, a copy of sensuality. There I am in the sun, propped up on a chaise lounge, my eyes closed. I'm wearing a bikini, my skin is oiled to catch the sun, my eyes are closed. The fabric of the chaise sticks to my skin. I bend one leg, then the other, reach for my fake lemonade. I am used to the taste of chemicals, the faux sugar, a chemist's tart notion of lemons. Only the ice is real, well-water sweet. I open my eyes and see it, the black snake winding around the maple tree. He's making his way to a bird's nest, is anticipating the broken eggshells, the featherless bodies of hatchlings.
I filter my life through metaphor. I obsess over theory and motive. I wonder if we can ever truly know ourselves or anyone else. The snake is doing what snakes do. The birds want to live but don't know it. I can't do anything about the brutality of nature or of my own weak needs, the need to create, the need for other people. I pretend for years that I am autonomous, I fake being good, I slither up trees and take what I think I need without asking.
The moment is almost real. It almost happened. I remember the snake. I remember days on the chaise lounge and count the wrinkles left by sun filtered through oil. The water from the hose was cool, the lemonade was a replicant of the real thing. The stretch marks, barely hidden by my white bikini top, were the only physical reminder of the long winter, of the thick layer of snow that I am only now digging myself out of.
Image of my shadow by me.
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