December 2, 2004

• Well, I had already put the house to bed when I decided to turn on a lamp and open this back up to write.  I spent most of the evening reading my book; tommorrow night is book club and I’ve not finished, nor have I even come close.  I’d just thrown on my jammies, flannel, fresh from the dryer, laid down my book on the nightstand with the covers thrown back and thought, “what melancholy,” knowing I wasn’t quite done.

  
  

  Normally I’m a quick reader.  I often skip long narratives of scenery or history that doesn’t advance the plot.  In fact, this may be the first time I’ve meandered through a story, taking it in exactly as written.  It strikes me to the bone.  I feel as though I’m feeling what’s written, and not because it’s so well written, which it is, but for something more ellusive.  And truly, while I don’t suppose I’m aching for the memory of my own Mandalay, it feels familiar on some base level.

  
  

  The fear, the uncertainty, the stilted longing for something staid and familiar is so pressing.  At the back of my throat I feel something tighten and a flush rise merely in admitting it to myself.  Still, I’m no closer to catching a glimpse of what stands just so far off that it is always around a corner… a foreboding, not dark really, an unknown.

  
  

  And I go about my world not quite right.  I gaff, and my half formed smile becomes in actuality a sneer.  It doesn’t matter my intentions.  I offend and witness the recoil of the other in shock, blundering further in my attempts to right myself.  Yes, that is it.  Perhaps I should retire among my books until the light comes back, daylight, softer than this harsh bulb illuminating, as it always does, my inadequacy.

  • 2:32 am
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