changes, moods, reflections

on returning from a hiatus

Writer’s block isn’t as simple as not wanting to type, just as procrastination isn’t as one-dimensional as being too stubborn or too lazy to get up and go. Maybe the same sort of people who believe in Horatio Alger myths and pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps* and that obesity can never, ever be due to anything other than a lack of self-control. I do not abide by these people. They must be the same ones born on third base thinking they hit a triple, the ones who get excellent jobs believing it was due to their own hard work and leave their jobless friends behind, the ones who spend hundreds of dollars on a pair of shoes and throw them away rather than get them fixed when a heel breaks. These people are not mine. 

In any case, this is not a long post. It is one, simply, to express gratitude to the people in my life simply for the fact that they exist and that they love me. I had the opportunity this evening to call my father and ask him for advice, possibly for the first time I can remember. It was a touching moment, and what he offered was just what I needed to hear. I called my son’s father, with whom I was able to have a serious conversation to solve an equally serious problem. It was precisely what I needed to soothe my nerves.

And before all of that, I spent hours in a cafe, writing by hand, making progress because it feels good, at times, to put pen to paper and see the words flow in front of one’s eyes. The kinetic energy, the muscle memory, the feeling of thoughts coming faster than the writing can possibly happen.

I’m again, now, in a cafe. A different one, in the Village, where I walked to after a meeting, after talking to my father to find a path and talking to my ex to find solace. It’s a cafe an ex-lover frequents, but I came here for myself, for the late-night hours and the free WiFi, not because this place is his. No place is his or mine or anyone else’s. Outside is Pommes Frites, and I wonder if they’re open this late, but there’s also an ice cream truck parked outside. Pommes Frites reminds me of the gas explosion in the Village not long ago, the day after I ate sushi there, missing disaster by mere coincidence, as many disasters are, I suspect. I never claimed to be unique, only interesting and potentially captivating. And there is nothing that is going to stop me from inhabiting every square inch of this city whenever the mood strikes me to be in a particular space. Right now, this cafe is that space, ex-lover or no ex-lover.

Besides, I’m getting an urge to go home and finish Orange is the New Black, so I’ll be leaving soon. And I’ve got some cleaning to do, an urge that always comes when I need an emotional release. Life continues its rotation, this Boethian wheel. I don’t much mind being on it these days. I think I’m actually beginning to like the feel of its spin.

What, precisely, is a bootstrap? I’ll certainly give it the ol’ college try to pull myself up by one if someone (a) tells me what it is and (b) sends me one. Or two. Do you need two? Then I’d need two in order for this attempt at pulling myself up to work. 

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