I woke up at 8:05 this morning. This was the first time in a few months that I’d woken up so early. Having no job nor the necessity to hold a job, my days are flexible and I am finding myself waking up later and later. I had to go to the town hall today for my residence permit. After waiting in the cold for half an hour and perching on a plastic chair, armed with a science fiction novel, for another two hours or so, I learned from the clerk that my card was not ready. Okay, was my first reaction. I was neither unhappy or glad to hear the news — I was flat with emotions. My days, after all, are equipped for long waits. I returned home to find my husband leaving for work. He had washed half of the dirty dishes from last night’s dinner. I looked at the clock thinking what a productive day I will have, having woken up so early.
As I walked back from the town hall this morning, I was taken by surprise by the change in the weather. It has been cold these past weeks, but this morning the sun shone strong and the air was chilly but not freezing. I felt a sudden giddiness and awakening — I walked with my head high, almost smiling. I scarf was gently hugging my neck and my hands found themselves unwanted of gloves. I am thinking of Clarissa as I write these lines. And I am thinking of Virginia. I oftentimes think that I can write well if I choose to do so. I have things to write about, like V. and the others who write. But my husband said, and I agreed with him, that I must start doing the actual work…click click click…is that how typing sounds?
A while back, a classmate of mine was blaming the press for vilifying Sylvia’s husband, whatever his name was. Spouses of writers are always villains are they not? My husband is not dramatic (I am angry at him for being so sometimes). I am. Even as I write this I am aware of my inclination to be dramatic, to think of myself stuck in some odd tragedy (but with exit doors in sight of course). The thing is that sometimes I think I am kidding myself. Sometimes the real tragedy is right after the fake one. Sometimes I have the feeling that it smiles knowingly at me, telling me to go ahead and enjoy the fake dramatic sense of tragedy.
I must go buy some chocolate; a friend is leaving next week and where she’s heading, there’s no good chocolate.
