Best Case

It was always the waking up that surprised her.  Not because she didn’t claim ownership over her own reckless behavior, but because she found that a little sleep, even forty minutes or so, produced just enough conscious distance that she was startled by the evidence around her.  That evidence, usually in the form of vomit (or worse) on her clothes, or receipts, or other sundry items that made it home with her somehow, served to confirm events from the previous night that those few moments of sleep attempted to wash away.  But the evidence was clear and couldn’t be disputed. 

As long as she was alone, she could imagine a “best case” scenario.  And she was almost always alone.  She made it home most nights – clutched that tiny victory of self-control fiercely, like a baby with a soggy cheerio in her closed fist.  Waking up anywhere other than home seemed a double defeat.

On Sleeping and Stravinsky’s Wife

Stravinsky’s wife got the shaft.  She tirelessly championed her husband and musical pioneer, watched as he spent almost twenty years living a double life with his mistress and eventual second wife, passed along her own tuberculosis to her daughter Ludmila, then witnessed said daughter die before she croaked herself.  What a raw deal.

Up until now, I pitied myself a lot.  Felt bad that I’d been through my own gamut of unfortunate events.  But really, it was nothing like Katerina Stravinsky.

I feel a bit guilty, too, for using a work like “croaked” to describe her death.  I’m certain the onomatopoeia is right on, but sadly, I also have no doubt that her demise was prolonged, painful, and very messy.  As she lay in her bed, likely confined to bed for most of her final days, she must have soaked countless rags with spit and coughed-up blood.  Necessarily isolated, and yet still responsible for the death of her daughter, she must have lingered that final year in mental agony matching her physical pain. 

I’m struck by the cavalier nature of my initial reflection.  Is this because I can’t seem to wrap my head around the tragedy of her life?  Certainly, she’s not alone in this standing; every day, thousands of men, women, and children must suffer unimaginable horrors.  But that’s just it - they aren’t really unimaginable.  These horrors are fully real and present, imaginable by those of us who allow ourselves to go down that dark path of the mind’s eye.  No need for visual evidence even, just a quiet union of emotion.  It’s easy enough to come back, to open our eyes to the drawn curtains of morning, with the January sun peeking through.  A sigh of relief might escape between sticky lips and a quick rub to the forearms will liven up frightened and heavy limbs.

Because then it’s morning.  All the beasts of the past are sleeping again and there’s nothing to fear but fear itself.  All that panic may rush in again without warning and flash flood the chest, like consumption, until it can’t draw breath.  But panic won’t kill you, at least, it won’t stop your heart.  My doctor told me so.

Your heart keeps right on beating, right through the fear.  All the way to the last day.  As long as those beasts stay asleep (tiptoes and whispers, but look back, and yes, they’re there), I’ll smile a little because they’re not so frightening, really, purring and cuddled up against each other to stay warm. 

But I’ll kill them yet.

Back to Bed

I didn’t taste the fruit cup on Christmas morning because I was too busy screwing up the rest of the meal.  Turns out the oranges were piercingly tart.

I had it all planned the week before: caramel rolls and eggs benedict for Christmas morning.  Then SOMEONE mentioned that caramel rolls were an X-mas tradition in another, previously married life.  I, of course, instantly vowed never make another caramel roll as long as I live.  So began the hunt for an alternate breakfast pastry that was gooey enough to match the indulgence of the caramel rolls, because my trusty blueberry muffin-making abilities were just too … everyday. 

Nineteen hours and eighty-two crumbcake recipes later, I decided to hell with it: I was making caramel rolls.  So there I was at midnight on Christmas eve, rolling out dough and trying to remember where I hid the stocking stuffers.

They rose too much and escaped from the pan in the oven, oozing butterscotch drippings that made for a sweetly smoky house. 

The handy microwave egg poacher I picked up to make the benedict a snap?  No good.  After the third egg exploded and I was sure everyone would be cursing me in their beds, I abandoned the plan.  I was really looking forward to making blender hollandaise, too.

I tiptoed back into the bedroom and stood beside the Count of caramel. Tears filled my eyes as his fluttered open. 

He cleared his throat a little and squinted at me. “What’s wrong, Smoochie?”

I sniffled, “I wrecked breakfast.”

He reached an arm out to take my hand.  “Oh Smoochie, I’ll make the Kernil’s special omelettes.” Omelettes made to order, for six. 

I sighed and sat on the edge of bed.  My Christmas miracle-man.  Every single day.

Writing for Your Life

I am working like a madwoman.  My day job has become a night-and-day job, and though I love it, I’m exhausted.  I told myself this would be temporary, this crazy schedule — that it was necessary to build my business and cast my net wide to connect with innovative people, but I am running out of juice.

My biggest problem isn’t the fatigue, though.  The biggest problem is that I’m not writing.  The effects of this lifestyle are varied and painful.  I need to get back into therapy soon, if I don’t start integrating regular writing practice into my day.  No time to process, no time to transcribe the voices and conversations in my head.  I’m losing observed moments to time and yesterday.  The cat places her paw gently on my wrist and I feel the pressure of her concern.  Thankfully, that’s recorded now.  Countless other moments have slipped away. 

It’s a bit of a fib to say I’m not writing, though.  I’m writing lots of emails, wiki entries, project management guides, and curriculum materials. I’m also writing loads of cryptic little notes to myself which remind me of the notes I wrote on cocktail napkins back when I was drinking.  Notes that say things like “multiple measures” instead of “raven’s wing” and mean as much the next day.

Speaking of sobriety, my productivity is through the roof right now — I only wish it was peaking in terms of a different kind of creativity.  I have a story that’s on my brain though, which is promising, especially as I do not typically write fiction.  I need to read a little Calvino, perhaps.  Maybe visit Kundera again, as the Velvet Revolution is also on my brain since Havel’s recent death.  I can’t seem to shake it.

This could be a start, this ten minutes here.  Reminiscent of Natalie Goldberg’s advice about taking “X” topic/subject/image and then “ten minutes — GO.”  This could be a good way to end the work day, even if the work day ends after one a.m. and begins again only a few hours from now.  I’ll let myself think about tomorrow’s topic during a snack or shower tomorrow.  If I can manage to squeeze in a shower.