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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,
