17 minutes

Numbers, it’s all about numbers.

Time to be somewhere. Time to do something. How much time is left. Glucose levels, insulin units, carb totals. Bills. Paychecks. Wave height, swell period. Numbers to call. Two more minutes steeping the tea; 17, now 13 minutes, now 12 to sit and write.

My brainsoulbeing aches from carrying all these words around in my mind. If I could write while commuting to Ferndale, I’d have a novel done by now. The clarity that comes when driving is the only distraction amazes me. No time, I have no time. (“If could write while _____ “; many things I do could finish that same sentence. It’s a shame one can only write while writing.)

Last week, five out of seven evenings filled with obligations; this week, not a night is free. “Free” – ha. As though being home equals a lack of things to do. Oh, the obligations are fun or at least interesting. But my head is heavy with thought. I would like to shake off this load and only allowing the words to manifest on page will work.

My tea turns bitter while I type.

Five minutes now, five minutes until the morning explodes into needs and hunger and laundry that must be kept going because it turns out the doe-eyed kitten has ringworm, which means everything – everything – must be washed washed washed in hot hot hot. The wee beastie cries upstairs from his quarantine in the bathroom. I donned gloves and spent 10 minutes caressing him, brought him a pill crushed in butter to rid the fungus. That soothed him for a while, but now he cries again.

Ringworm? I have time and energy for this? The universe plays great jokes. I understand why people would long for a god – somebody really ought to have to explain these lives we lead. The holidays, and all that that implies, deserve a separate post, but time is up.

2 thoughts on “17 minutes”

  1. This is an irony in my life as well: “It’s a shame one can only write while writing.”

    I also find it very inconvenient that I can’t talk on the phone while driving on the long stretch between McKinleyville and Eureka. All the phone calls I need to return, all the people who are annoyed they never hear from me.

    But writing is how I communicate. Anyone who really wants to know my heart, or how I’m doing, or who I am has only to read my blog. But so many who know me in person never bother.

    The plight of writers, I guess.

    Thanks for your intelligence and articulateness, Jennifer.

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