my husband sleeps, my cats lie in wait, and the squirrel in the roof has temporarily ceased scratching. i keep running across that quote from flannery, that writers must not save the world, but save the work. save the work. i think (thought? think?) that was the path i chose when i left the advocacy world, left working for the church for good. the action alerts in my inbox go largely unheeded. lunch hour forays into the sadder news of the times preys upon my already troubled mind. last week: an artist who lived in the subway tunnels died in a fire. he had co-authored a graphic novel about his life underground. what stuck out most was mention of the childen's home where he was raised, it said, "after his parents abandoned him." there is enough sadness in those five words to make me want to hide from the light of day, hide, hide. but i am not emily, i don't like wearing white, and i like people too much to stay solely in my garden, my kitchen, my room.
if i were emily dickinson i would wear deep gray and leave my house at least to observe the townsfolk from nearby woods, and visit a friend or two by cover of darkness.
if i were merrill garbus i would wear cerulean face paint, and let my hair even out, and give myself a big pat on the back.
if i were flannery o'connor i would spend time watching the peacocks through my window, and cover my room in silver saints, and not let the darkness scare me.
if i were susan sontag i would try not to be so elitist, and dye my white streak hot pink every once in awhile, and visit all of the french speaking countries, and try to master patois.
but i am me. with a dull headache, a confused sense of self, a need to write, a lack of time, and an aversion to routine. i wish i had a room upstairs with a large window overlooking an evergreen tree. i will have to write it into existence.
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