I run, falter, dust myself, and dash off again. I huff and puff — and drag on without a stop. That’s pretty much what my life is about.
Oh, and it’s also about a list of things not being done and another long list of things I’ve wanted all my life and which are a far cry from the present reality. Sometimes it is also about the ominous strikeouts of cherished bucket list items. That’s when I give up, at least temporarily, on certain things, thinking they are impossible to achieve or simply incompatible with my present life.
Such as a quaint tea party with old friends amidst the old environs of T3 in Park Street. The restaurant has closed down since I last visited it in early 2008. That also happened to be my first visit — one that I would remember for the rest of my life as the forked path that took me this way in life.
Or, maybe a bright park where I can sit with a book and have my dogs play by themselves. That is not to be either. Where I live, there’s a lone joggers’ park out of bounds for animals. And the roads are full of strays and traffic, so dog walking is a terrible task. And the less said about the impunity of my pets, the better. Same goes about my reading.
Nowadays, I try not to think about painting. Just the thought of it makes me ache all over and, I must admit, throw tantrums over little things that leave people spell-bound. I have no time at all. No time to do my hair before I go out to work. [I do that on my way, inside the office vehicle.] No time to read. No time to sleep or stand by the window, or write.
Yet I blog. Precisely because I must. I must not lose my voice in the chores of life. Even as I sat paralyzed with my fingers on the keypad — choking on the previous passage, the maid arrived, I opened the door, answered what was to be cooked, and tried to overhear what they were discussing in the society meeting. [The dogs, I suspect.]
It’s not surprising that my life is so hectic. Many people live theirs on a more difficult level and continue to be creative. What I find surprising is the price that I have to pay to get the things I want in life.
Writing helps me think back on time. It gives me a cover from the daily kitchen-sink harangue. Writing is the cozy little space I create for myself — if only mentally.
As Virginia Woolf pointed out, no woman who ever gave herself up to the proper [aka conventionally prescribed] upkeep of home and hearth has ever been able to write anything of substance. With due respect to the angelic author of A Room of One’s Own, I say, therefore it is that I blog. Expect no more of me dear lady, but I shall write nonetheless. If only to remember all that is going unseen and unlived. Or to remind myself of the months since I sat down to take stock of life.
What I might end up with is a litany of little ideas — embryos aborted midway in a sudden creative splurge. That might well be the fate of Halfastory. Yet I shall write. For otherwise I might scream.