A long while. I’ve gotten productive during this Covid situation. I posted a story on a blog on WordPress years ago and have recently begun some serious editing. I haven’t seen any of my siblings or cousins who I once saw during holidays and even weekends. So writing is on my front burner where it should have always been. Thanksgiving is going to be a curbside occasion with children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren not visiting so much as stopping by, wearing masks, and grabbing food in to-go containers. I guess it’s better than not seeing them at all, though there will be many I won’t see. Birthday gatherings and graduations have been via Zoom meetings but that has its rewards when the meetings are nationally held. So, you take the good where you can, look beyond the bad, and count your blessings. Happy Thanksgiving to all.
Kitchen Blog: In Sync/April 24, 2014
So I’m at Mercy Hospital and I’m waiting for Jha to get out of school. Does Tim Horton’s have a kitchen?
Anyway, I just had a coffee from there, and I was talking to Pinky about my writing progress, or lack thereof. So I have decided to do the Michael story and it is a finished life, so this should be easy right? I’m listening mind. Isn’t this your cue? No advice, no commentary?
“This isn’t syncing.”
Now my mind wants to talk, and it’s right, this isn’t syncing. The PC, my tablet, my phone. They’re not syncing with the Evernote app.
Okay, it took a little bit of time, but we’re synced. Not my mind and I, sometimes we do sync, but right now, I’m talking about my electronics.
We wrote this letter from within with unveiled honesty. Now I don’t remember it. The words were sent off to someone who didn’t treasure them enough to hold on to them.
We’d often sit on the beach here in Canada and watch the waves rush in, make love to the beach, then rush out again. That’s what we’d like. A lover who rushes in, makes love to us, body and mind, then rushes away again.
Odessa says, no I would not. She was talking to her, not us, definitely not me. Charles said, he thought her something or other. Neither of them understands. Now in retrospect I realize that I held back when I sent that letter to Charles, because I was the captain of those words. She was the crew. Charles thought she was keeping herself in an unnecessary prison. Living with our daughter and not allowing our selves the freedom to love. In truth, even if we lived alone and was undisturbed the majority of the time, I think we’d never be lonely.
Margene understands. She just told us this about herself the other day. I think Pinky feels this way too. This is truth. We don’t want to be bothered by a man, not even one who rushes in like the lake. For now, in this little capsule of time, we want the solitude. I doubt we’d ever tire of it. We may get bored. May reflect in sadness, but for the few times we did live alone in our life, there were never regrets. The only regrets are that we allowed a man to intrude.
Does this make us selfish, shallow? I don’t think so. It means we like, even love ourselves. For how could I stand to be alone with us, if I do not love us? If we, do not love us?
So I won’t allow anyone to cause us doubt about this but will, instead, seek it out. The proof is in our writing.
The letter I sent to Charles that flowed beautiful and positive was written in a little block of her time. In touch with our thoughts time. She gave me control that day.
The stories she’s written here in Canada, finished here, have been during her alone with me time.
A month or two with this kind of solitude and we could finish “Torry” and “Stealing Time.” I guess that’s why she set them aside. She knew, that I had the solitude to realize that our alone times would be in small blocks. That’s why short stories and articles are flowing like a river, into an ocean up here.
This inspires me to strive for freedom on a larger scale. She has to book a room for a weekend, where we’re completely alone. To eventually save for a real vacation. A writing retreat. Someplace with pen, paper, music, ideas and lots and lots of water.
Then we’ll write. we’ll only write.