I am very good at compartmentalizing. I put things in boxes and baskets all over my house, corralling, herding, filing until there is enough order for me to move on. Those containers are real but there are virtual ones, too. My mother’s death is in a box, as is her life. My father’s ongoing health dramas are packed into a larger box these days. Looking for a ‘forever house’ is in a box marked “I’ve really got to get on that.” London is in a crate marked “Home.” My sons each have a box labeled “College” and my daughter has one currently called “Who the hell is this kid?” Finally, my writing has its own box and I take it out each day. I try to determine what story I will tell and how I’ll tell it. Sometimes I try to remember what I thought I was doing when I started writing at all.
Quick, Get Me a Pad and Pencil. Ah, too late.
I have “Ah Ha” moments in completely useless spots. You know, places where I cannot possibly act on my revelations. The grown up equivalent of those I’m just high/looped/tired enough to get that the “fourth dimension is UP, man!” flashes. I wouldn’t call them epiphanies, they’re more like epihanettes. They seem to occur while I’m walking along Portobello Road, pulling my stylish trolley. Or, when I’m swimming and I have to chant the meaning of everything that I’ve just discovered (I’ll share it later) over and over until I’ve finished the swim. By the time I’ve gotten in the shower, it’s gone. (Sorry, gone, baby, gone, can’t share.) Or, in the car while I’m singing along with “Carry on My Wayward Son.” Kansas, right, good memory.
It Only Hurts When I Laugh
I was just having a cup of tea on my little terrace (as you do) and spilled it (as I do). I spilled it on the table which is wire and designed to let liquids flow through it (which this one did, nicely). My knee, my pants, my sneaker are now splashed with sticky tea. I won’t be changing, though. Too much like hard work at this hour.