Just Write for Thursday February 6, 2014

White Wolf
This is a card I made for ML
when she was over for dinner.
Click image to view larger.
Made with glitter pens from Staples.

I do "Just Writing" nearly every day and have been doing it for years and years. It clears the pipelines for my "work" writing, my "real" writing.  I do not have a shortage of just writing, I just have a shortage of time to post it.

            I am in Brian Powers waiting room at 1:00 PM Thursday, February 6, 2014.  Last time I was writing on the Psion, I think I was in the middle of writing a story above, but it is so dim in here that I can't see where I left off and since it's been way too cold and icy to do any writing, it's been too long to remember where I was when I left off.  I think I had just arrived at the lean-to with Michael, Roberta and Sasha on the night we camped out at 40 below.

            Is there such a thing as intangible pain?  Not imaginary pain—it’s somehow very real.  Not phantom limb pain, which is something else entirely.  Not psychosomatic pain, but something else entirely.  I just can't think what to call it. But I have it.  It fills me, reaching into every part of my body, mind and soul.

            The day started off fairly well.  I'd been abstinent on my diet for a number of days, finally.  I hadn't eaten any bad food and had slept relatively well for me.  I felt cheerful and more energetic that usual and very hopeful about recovery from insomnia and fibromyalgia pain.  I thought that if I ate right I'd sleep better and feel better.  But I don't, always.  Sometimes, I feel worse.

            Now I am at CVS waiting for a prescription that was called in hours ago.  I left two bags on the seat of the car, thinking I'd just be running in and back out, but it's not ready and the woman who said, "just give me a few minutes," has a huge long line of people waiting.  Should I go out to the car and hide the stuff in the trunk?  Leave and come back later?  She said a few minutes, but she hasn't moved from cash register and the line shows no sign of letting up.  The line snakes down through the aisles.  Is someone else preparing the script? 

            I signed up for a creative writing class free at the library.  The first class was last night.  Next week, we are supposed to have a lottery to see who reads their work.  Of course, in my eager selfishness, I want one of the readers chosen to be me.  But I haven’t written anything yet.  I can bring something in progress or do the assignment.  The assignment is to write a six-word story (E.G., Hemmingway’s famous, “For Sale, baby shoes, never used") and then develop a short story or novel scene from that. In the early hours in bed I came up with a few of them, which I no longer precisely remember.  One was about Geraldine feeding cookies to the wolves.  I am excited about the prospect of writing for this—I’d like best if I could write something that could be used in Uncertain Weather or Following Wolfie or Uncle Beast.  Or my Geraldine Novel (Which is only my head, at this point, except the poetry I have written.)

            When I reach the parking lot at Pier Park, I watch a dump truck full of snow unload its burden at the end of the parking lot.  There are many piles of snow down there, so this is clearly not its first trip.  Of course, some of them were from clearing this parking lot.  But not all.  I have the same problem shoveling at home or at the office—where do I put the snow.  I have to carry it long ways because the banks are too high now.

            It is cold and windy at Pier Park, and all white.  I am feeling agitated because I am not eager to be here and feel I should be over at Rolandale watering the plants and shoveling the driveway, BUT I am afraid that the road (Rolandale) will be impassable with the new snow.  I am walking along in a cold and annoyed funk trying to figure out what to do.  The sky is white.  Yes, white, or, a very pale, pale shade of grey that looks white.  The snow is white on land.  The lake is frozen, covered with snow, and white.  Everything is white.  There are long drifts crossing the path along the far jetty, distinguished only by faint shadows.  Then, two swan fly by, low above the ice, the necks stretched out, their miraculous bodies airborne.  White on white on white.  I am suddenly full of joy.

This is my third installment of Just Write, "an exercise in free writing your ordinary and extraordinary moments." You can read about this project at The Extraordinary Ordinary. If you decide to participate, you canreadn Heather's post from November 11. You can read Nadine's first two installment here and here and one of mine here.  Todays Just write #121 (Heather's) is here,