2010/It's the Future/How Soon is Now, indeed
I have high hopes for this new year. According to Facebook, so does everyone. Maybe because it's also a new decade. Maybe because 2009 was unanimously difficult. For me, a lot of drudgery and illness. An inert year, in many ways, although I have been expanded, certainly, in many hard-to-reach places. The caves of my heart, notably. The attics of my uppermost feelings. A couple unarguably breathtaking, beautiful, triumphant moments. But not much writing done since early summer, and the nagging sense, always, that I'm supposed to be "farther along" by now. The hint of belatedness that seems to cling, always, to everything good-ish that comes, like a faint mildew.
It's silly, of course, to think that a calendar page, a turning of days, a minuscule milepost in the time-space continuum, could *mean* or portend anything much. But I enjoy the opportunity to pretend that it can, and to hope mightily that along with things, I can get better too.
Part of me feels superstitious about articulating my wants in a public place. Part of me doesn't give a fuck. That part wins. That part often wins. Probably not often enough.
I want The School to be published. I want it to look like a reading primer from 1942. I want a publisher. I also want an agent, but I want a publisher more. I want to get dizzy with book #2. Right now it's all stops and starts and hating everything the next day. I want to read books again, whole books. Motherhood has made me harebrained in this regard, and I also blame our house. I deeply miss laying in bed with a book and reading past a responsible hour. Beatrice shares our room, and she has become a sensitive enough sleeper that after her bedtime, we corral ourselves in the main room until we're ready to sleep. I want to turn the internet off more, which is much harder for me to do than the TV, but I want to turn that off, too. I want our funny little house to sell. I want an office. I want to fret less, in my creating and in my life, and create more, and live better. I want to help Brian finish his album. I want us always to be making, despite the jobs and the drudgery.
In 2009, in the words of The Mountain Goats: "hurt my knuckles punching the machines." And in the other words of The Mountain Goats, "there will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year." Next year being this year, obviously.
It's silly, of course, to think that a calendar page, a turning of days, a minuscule milepost in the time-space continuum, could *mean* or portend anything much. But I enjoy the opportunity to pretend that it can, and to hope mightily that along with things, I can get better too.
Part of me feels superstitious about articulating my wants in a public place. Part of me doesn't give a fuck. That part wins. That part often wins. Probably not often enough.
I want The School to be published. I want it to look like a reading primer from 1942. I want a publisher. I also want an agent, but I want a publisher more. I want to get dizzy with book #2. Right now it's all stops and starts and hating everything the next day. I want to read books again, whole books. Motherhood has made me harebrained in this regard, and I also blame our house. I deeply miss laying in bed with a book and reading past a responsible hour. Beatrice shares our room, and she has become a sensitive enough sleeper that after her bedtime, we corral ourselves in the main room until we're ready to sleep. I want to turn the internet off more, which is much harder for me to do than the TV, but I want to turn that off, too. I want our funny little house to sell. I want an office. I want to fret less, in my creating and in my life, and create more, and live better. I want to help Brian finish his album. I want us always to be making, despite the jobs and the drudgery.
In 2009, in the words of The Mountain Goats: "hurt my knuckles punching the machines." And in the other words of The Mountain Goats, "there will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year." Next year being this year, obviously.
1 Comments:
I definitely can relate to that feeling of not being farther along. I've been trying to redefine what I deem as progress. It's difficult because I always end up comparing myself to other people while forgetting all the things I've done that they haven't done. Most of the things I envy, I don't even want.
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